UNIVERSITY  OF 
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FRENCH    PORTRAITS 


Catulle  Mendes 


S  7*zfo 


FRENCH 
PORTRAITS 

Being  Appreciations    of   the 
Writers  of  Young  France  by 

VANCE  THOMPSON 


BOSTON 
Richard  G.  Badger  ©>  Co. 


1900 


COPYRIGHT     1899 

By   Richard  G.    Badger  &  Co. 


All  Rights  Reserved 


TO   MY  FRIEND 

JAMES  GIBBONS  HUNEKER 


By  Way  of  Preface 

/'T  was  Friday,  June  the  21  st,  1 87 2.    Goncourt  dined 
with   Flaubert   at   the    Cafe   Riche,   "in   a  private 
room,  because  Flaubert  cannot  endure  noise,  tolerates 
no  one  near  him,  and,  when  dining,  likes  to  take  off  his 
coat  and  shoes. " 

A  detail  of  this  sort  is  worth  pages  of  biography  and 
exegesis.  Not  even  the  philosopher  can  be  indifferent  to 
the  fact  that  Socrates  sat  rubbing  his  leg  in  prison,  or 
that  Aristotle  wore  a  stomach-pad  filled  wit  It  hot  oil. 
The  ideas  of  great  men,  the  fulhams  of  poetic  fiction, 
the  theories  for  which  we  fight,  are  the  common  patri- 
mony of  mankind :  what  the  great  man  possesses  is,  in 
reality,  only  his  eccentricities.  That  Milton  trilled  the 
letter  "  R  "  and  that  Shelley  wore  wool  next  to  his  skin, 
these  are  the  true  glosses  on  their  poems.  In  these  appre- 
ciations of  the  writers  of  young  France  I  have  not,  I 
trust,  laid  undue  stress  upon  what  they  have  done 
slighting  what  they  are.  I  should  like  you  to  see  — 
across  these  pages  —  Verlaine  hobbling  to  his  cafe  in  the 
BouT  Midi' ,  Mallarme  jogging  by  in  his  donkey-cart, 
Eekhoud  fondling  his  rabbit,  or,  it  may  be,  Signorct, 
impossibly  young,  promoiading  his  pale  soul  in  the 
autumnal  alleys  of  Versailles. 

For  many  years,  now,  the  dear  Lord  has  preserved  me 
from  the  sin  of  inutile  reading.  Alivays,  I  hope,  he  will 
keep  me  from  the  dull  mania  of  assigning  ranks  and 
distributing  prises  —  with  that  assured  and  peremptory 


via 


PREFACE 


air  of  the  village  schoolmaster  —  to  men  of  letters.  Only 
this :  During  the  last  fezv  years  French  literature  has 
conquered  a  new  territory,  extending  the  frontiers  of 
prose  and  verse.  Certain  men  there  were  who  marched 
in  the  van,  beating  the  heady  drums  ;  and  it  is  of  them 
I  have  written.  Two  of  them  are  dead,  many  are  fa- 
mous, a  fezv  are  not  yet  condemned  to  public  admira- 
tion. I  have  selected  those  who  fought  well  or  failed 
well,  those  who  had  some  individual  trick  of  sword- 
play.  Now  and  then  (for  consistency  is  not  a  necessary 
evil),  I  have  paused  to  gossip  with  Pym  and  Pistol, 
trailing  raggedly  in  the  rear. 
It  is  an  army  that  passes. 

I  can  point  out  the  leaders,  indicate  the  plan  of  cam- 
paign, repeat  the  jests  and  songs  heard  at  the  bivouac- 
fire.  Always  the  army  passes ;  and,  even  as  I  write, 
on  the  far  horizon  is  the  smoke  of  a  neiu  battle.  To-day 
is  but  the  vestibule  of  to-morrow.  In  a  few  years  the 
writers  of  young  France  will  be  dozing  in  the  green  fau- 
teuils  of  the  Academy  ;  already  the  books  that  seemed  so 
strenuous  in  revolt  are  in  the  way  of  becoming  classic. 
Verlaine,  who  was  once  as  improbable  a  man  as  Walt 
Whitman,  is  now  an  accomplice  in  the  bright  glory  of 
France  ;  and  for  Rette  and  many  another  the  hour  will 
come. 

Here  and  there  I  have  larded  my  book  ivith  the  fat  of 
others.  To  Marcel  Schwob,  to  Remy  de  Gourmont,  to 
Ernest  La  Jeunesse,  I  owe  a  debt  which  they  will 
recognize,  but  which  I  cannot  repay. 

VANCE    THOMPSON. 
Paris,  October,  1899. 


Contents 


PAGE 


INTRODUCTION xi 

i.  PAUL  VERLAINE i 

2.  STfiPHANE  MALLARME n 

3.  THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE: 

Camille  Lemonnier 24 

Maurice  Maeterlinck 29 

Emile  Verhaeren 43 

Georges  Eekhoud 50 

Georges  Rodenbaeh 61 

Max  Elskamp  and  Fernand  Severin      ...  69 

4.  THE  LAST  OF  THE  PARNASSIANS: 

Catulle  Mendes 73 

5.  JEAN  MOREAS  AND   HIS  DISCIPLES    .  91 

6.  THE  NEW  POETRY: 

Free  Verse 100 

Adolphe  Rette 105 

Henri  de  Regnier,  Stuart  Merrill  and  Francis 

Viele-Griffin 113 

Emmanuel  Signoret  and  Albert  Samain     .      .  121 

7.  THE  PAGANISM  OF  PIERRE  LOUYS  .  130 

8.  JEAN   RICHEPIN  AND  THE  VAGROM 

MAN 137 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


9.  THE  CHRIST  OF  JEHAN  RICTUS    .     .  152 

10.  MAURICE  BARRES  AND  EGOISM    .     .  160 

n.  FABLES,  BALLADS,  PASTORALS: 

Jules  Renard 168 

Paul  Fort 176 

Francis  Jammes 180 

12.  THE  NEW  ERASMUS: 

Marcel  Schwob .      .  184 

13.  NATURISM  AND  SAINT-GEORGES  de 

BOUHELIER 194 

14.  MEN  OF  LETTERS  AND  ANARCHY    .  203 

15.  THE  NEW  CRITICISM: 

Ernest  La  Jeunesse 211 

16.  "IN  THE  GENTLEMANLY  INTEREST": 

Hugues  Rebell 219 

M.     le     Comte     Robert     de     Montesquiou 

Fezensac 225 

INDEX 231 


List  of  Illustrations 

Catulle  Mendes frontispiece 

Verlaine  in  the  hospital page  i 

A  sketch  of  Verlaine  by  F.  A.  Cazals "  4 

Verlaine  reading "  5 

'*  L'oubli  qu'on  cherche  en  des  breuvages  execres!"    .        "  6 

Two  heads  of  Paul  Verlaine "  7 

"This  was  the  Rimbaud  period  of  his  life  "...        "  8 

A  portrait  of  Verlaine  by  Cazals "  9 

Verlaine  on  his  death-bed "  10 

Stephane  Mallarme  by  Vallatou      .......        ••  11 

Maupassant "  12 

Villiers  de  1' Isle  Adam "  13 

Stephane  Mallarme facing   ••  14 

Rene  Ghil "  16 

Maeterlinck  by  Vallaton "  29 

Maurice  Maeterlinck racing   ;<  30 

Verhaeren  by  Vallaton "  43 

Emile  Verhaeren facing   "  44 

Georges  Eekhoud "       "  50 

Sunday  morning  in  a  polder  village "       "  56 

Bruges '•  61 

Georges  Rodenbach facing   "  62 

A  sketch  of  Rodenbach iS  64 

Fernand  Severin facing   '•  70 

Leconte  de  Lisle "  79 

Jean  Moreas  by  Vallaton ;-  92 

Rette ••  105 

Adolphe  Rette facing   ,;  106 


Xll 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Henri  de  Regnier page    l  1 3 

Two  portraits  of  Francis  Viele-Griffin "116 

Stuart  Merrill  by  Vallaton "117 

A  portrait  of  Stuart  Merrill facing  "      118 

Emmanuel  Signoret "121 

A  portrait  of  Signoret facing  "      122 

Albert  Samain "127 

Pierre  Louys     ■ "130 

Jean  Richepin facing  "      138 

Jehan  Rictus "160 

Barres  by  Vallaton "160 

Maurice  Barres facing  "      162 

Jules  Renard  by  Jean  Veber "168 

Renard  by  Vallaton ",169 

A  portrait  of  Renard "170 

Paul  Fort ' "      1 76 

Francis  Jammes "180 

Marcel  Schwob "184 

Saint-Georges  de  Bouhelier "194 

A  head  of  Saint-Georges  de  Bouhelier "      197 

Maurice  Le  Blond "199 

Zo  d'Axa  by  Vallaton "      203 

Louise  Michel "      204 

Henri  Mazel "      205 

Pierre  Quillard "      206 

Zo  d'Axa "     207 

Paul  Adam "      208 

The  portrait  of  a  poet  by  Jossot "211 

Hugues  Rebell  by  Vallaton "219 

Hugues  Rebell "      222 

Le  Comte  Robert  de  Montesquiou  Fezensac       .      .      .  "      225 


FRENCH  PORTRAITS 


An 
Impression  of  Paul  Verlaine 

ONE  night  in  the  year'  84  —  upon  my  word, 
I  am  getting  old!  I  shall  follow  Prince 
Hal's  advice,  and,  after  certain  reformations, 
live  cleanly  in  gray  hairs.  Well,  one  can't  always 
be  young ;  and  it's  a  devil  of  a  thing  to  have  been 
young  once.  Eh,  golden  lads  ?  And  now  I  abdi- 
cate. My  reign  of  youth  is  over :  to  you  is  the 
sceptre,  my  dear  fellow, —  to  you,  who  are  young,  a 
lover  of  women,  a  drunkard  of  rhymes.  To  me  is 
the  twilight,  the  writing-table,  and  the  fireplace. 
You  shall  love  and  rule  and  kiss  many  women ; 
and  you  shall  dream  golden,  splendid  rhymes.  I, 
in  the  twilight,  summon  the  ghosts  of  women  who 
were  kissed  too  much,  and  sing  over  the  old 
rhymes,  threadbare  now.  On  the  whole,  I  think  it 
is  quite  as  pleasant !  But  it  is  well  to  have  known 
the  heroic  candors  and  have  been  ravished  by  the 
splendid  banalities  of  youth.  One's  twilights  are 
less  tedious. 

One  night,  in  the  autumn  of  '84,  I  say,  certain 
folk  gathered  at  a  sort  of  Bohemian  cercle  held  in 
an   old    house    in  the   Rue  de   Rennes.     In  a 


/*\ 


2  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

naked  room  on  the  first  floor  these  folk  gathered 
weekly  to  drink  beer  and  discuss  aesthetics :  those 
who  drank  absinthe  discussed  philosophy.  Charles 
Cros,  with  his  crisp,  curly  hair  and  face  tawn  as  a 
Lascar's,  was  there.  Already  far  gone  in  drink,  he 
leaned  with  one  elbow  on  the  table,  reciting  in  a 
hard,  dry  voice  his  last  monologue, —  one  Coquelin 
had  just  made  famous  in  drawing-rooms.  His 
hands,  already  senile,  trembled  with  alcoholic  fever. 
I  dare  say  he  is  dead  now,  this  founder  of  a  shadowy 
school  of  poets,  this  author  of  the  "  CorTret  de 
Santal."  The  harsh  voice  ceased.  His  head  fell 
on  the  table.  From  the  dozen  or  more  throats 
came  howls  of  applause.  Ah,  what  a  crowd, —  this 
company  which  now  belongs  to  the  twilights  of  the 
past !  A  half-dozen  shirts  in  the  crowd  were  fairly 
clean.  The  rest  were  Verlainesque.  And  what 
rhymes  were  shouted  over  the  wine  and  beer, —  the 
rhymes  of  young  poets,  in  whose  visions  women  are 
always  undraped  and  disport  an  unusual  luxury  of 
seins  nacreux  and  hanches  opulentesf 

Hark !  Upon  my  word,  as  though  it  were  yes- 
terday I  can  hear  that  devil  of  a  Gascon,  Fernand 
Icres,  intoning  in  a  barbarous  accent :  — 

Sa  chevelure  et  sa  poitrine 
Faisaient  monter  a  ma  narine 
D'etranges  parfums  irritants. 

Elle  avait  seize  ans  ;  mais  son  buste, 
Tout  a  la  fois  souple  et  robuste, 
En  portait  vingt  en  verite. 


AN  IMPRESSION  OF  PAUL  VERLAINE       3 

There  were  women  there,  too.  One  I  remember 
vaguely  through  the  smoke  of  innumerable  twi- 
lights. This  was  Marie  Krysinka,  a  Polish  Jewess, 
who  pounded  melodramatic  music  out  of  the  piano, 
and  was  a  poetess  whose  peculiar  passion  was  corpses 
and  snow.  She  used  to  hold  "  Thursdays  "  in  her 
little  apartment  up  five  pairs  of  stairs  in  the  Rue 
Monge.  I  heard  afterward  that  she  married  an 
archaeologist  —  or  was  it  a  manufacturer  of  wooden 
toothpicks  ?     Something  of  the  sort. 

In  the  corner  Verlaine  glowered  over  his  fifth 
glass  of  absinthe,  whispering  to  himself. 

The  Cafe  du  Chalet  had  its  day. 

Then  the  young  poets  of  the  day,  led,  if  I 
remember,  by  Emile  Goudeau,  migrated  to  the 
Cafe  de  l'Avenir,  in  the  Place  St.  Michel.  The 
tavern  is  now  known  as  the  Tavern  of  the  Golden 
Sun.  There  were  famous  Sunday  nights  in  that 
soussol  —  ebeu,fugaces,  anni  labuntur  —  a  decade  and 
more  ago.  We  were  all  worshippers  of  Verlaine. 
We  had  read  "  Sagesse."  We  had  lent  the  poet 
five-franc  pieces,  had  bought  him  absinthe,  had 
helped  him  up  the  hospital  steps  when  his  diseases 
were  too  many  for  him.  It  is  something  to  be 
proud  of;  for  in  those  days  it  was  a  distinction  to 
appreciate  the  greatest  of  French  poets, —  this  bat- 
tered, old  Verlaine.  Anatole  France,  who  since 
then  has  written  a  beautiful  fable  of  which  Verlaine 
is  the  hero,  in  those  days  did  not  dare  to  introduce 


4  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

the  name  in  his  bourgeois  articles.  That  sombre 
and  vindictive  Creole,  Leconte  de  Lisle,  had,  a  few 
years  before,  denounced  Paul  Verlaine  as  an  em- 
ployee of  the  Commune,  in  the  gentle  hope  of 
getting  him  shot.  Even  Coppee,  this  gentlest  of 
poets,  sneered  at  him.  George  Moore,  who  had 
just  gone  to  London,  echoed  these  sentiments  in  a 
book  he  wrote  about  that  time, —  "  The  Confessions 
of  a  Young  Man."  Mr.  Moore  has  since  recanted. 
You  cannot  judge  the  George  Moore  of  to-day  by 
his  opinions  in  that  book. 

Eh  bien  !  some  of  us,  however,  carried  the  ori- 
flamme  of  Verlaine.  He  sat  among  us  there,  this 
old  man,  with  the  dirty  neckerchief  and  the  ribald 
and  unclean  speech.  And  is  it  thus  I  remember 
him  ?  No.  I  remember  him  best  when,  with  his 
glowing  eyes  half  closed,  he  recited  some  new  sonnet 
or  unforeseen  verses, —  splendid  as  golden  coins. 


His  face  was  like  the  mask  of  Socrates,  with  its 
high  cheek-bones  and  simian  mouth.  The  nose  was 
flat,  camous,  broken ;  the  great  bald  head  covered 
with  knobs,  like  a  battered  helmet ;  a  draggled  beard 
hung  about  the  cheeks  and  chin ;  the  ears  were  flat 
and  large.  The  eyes,  those  deep-set,  dreamy,  in- 
tolerably vague  eyes,  glowered  at  one  from  beneath 
rugged,  square-hewn  brows. 

This  was  Paul  Verlaine,  as  you  might  have  seen 


AN  IMPRESSION  OF  PAUL  VERLAINE       5 

him  any  day,  slouching  along  the  street  or  lounging 
over  a  marble-topped  table  in  the  Cafe  Francois 
Premier.  Or  at  other  times  you  might  have  seen 
him  sitting  in  his  bed  in  some  foul  mansarde,  an  old 
man,  grimy  and  drunk,  in  a  greasy  night-cap  and 
abominable  linen.  George  Moore  saw  him  thus, 
once  upon  a  time,  blaspheming.  Degas,  the  great 
painter,  has  recorded  an  impression  of  Verlaine  in 
one  of  his  most  famous  pictures,  "  The  Absinthe 
Drinker."  Verlaine  is  sitting  at  a  table  over  an 
opalescent  glass  of  absinthe.  Near  by  sprawls  a 
woman  of  the  streets,  wretched,  tipsy,  pitiable.  It 
is  well  that  this  impression  should  be  recorded.  In 
this  poor,  great  poet  there  was  much  of  Walt  Whit- 
man's fine  humanity.     He,  too,  might  have  sung, — 

The  prostitute  draggles  her  shawl,  her  bonnet  bobs  on  her  tipsy 

and  pimpled  neck  ; 
The  crowd  laughs  at  her  blackguard  oaths,  the  men  jeer  and  wink 

at  each  other  — 
Miserable!     I  do  not  laugh  at  your  oaths  nor  jeer  you' 

He  was  a  very  gentle  poet,  and  in  all  the  world's 
misery  there  was  nothing  alien  to  him. 


He  had  a  face  vizard-like,  unchanging,  made  im- 
pudent with  the  use  of  evil  deeds.  But  the  eyes 
were  those  of  the  penitent  thief  turned  toward  Him 
on  the  middle  cross. 


6  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

I  would  rather  talk  of  his  books.  He  was  the 
greatest  poet  of  this  generation. 

His  life  was  a  tragedy  of  passion :  his  work  is  a 
shadow  of  his  life.  Once  I  called  him  a  Socratic 
Pierrot.  Morice  approved  the  phrase,  and  made  it 
classic.  There  were  two  men  in  Verlaine, —  Soc- 
rates and  Pierrot,  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi  and  the 
Marquis  de  Sade.  Even  in  age  —  when  his  pale 
soul  was  fatigued  by  the  years  —  he  was  still, 
like  the  saint  and  the  mountebank,  a  child.  Life 
excited  and  irritated  him.  Then,  fatigued,  he  wept 
like  a  tired  child.  The  tears  and  laughter, —  these 
are  his  poems.  He  had  dreams,  horribly  beautiful, 
in  which  Bonus  Angelus  wrestled  with  Malus 
Angelus.     These,  too,  are  his  poems. 

He  lived  feverishly.  He  was  a  lover  of  life. 
Life  as  it  is  he  loved, —  the  gust  of  pleasure  and  the 
fear  of  pain,  the  idolatry  of  appearances,  the  make- 
believe  of  virtue :  he  loved  even  life's  mediocrities. 
He  had  a  horror  of  sin  even  when  he  sinned.  The 
defunct  symbols  of  the  Pardoner  haunted  him. 
The  pendulum  of  his  life  swung  between  riot  and 
renunciation,  from  the  hair-cloth  to  the  cloth  of 
gold. 

"  How  do  you  write  ?  "  I  asked  him. 

"Enfievre"  he  said. 

He  recorded  his  impressions  of  life  frankly,  and, 
since  he  had  an  innate  sense  of  harmony,  musi- 
cally.    Dear   Lord !   how   musically !     Words    Ian- 


AN  IMPRESSION  OF  PAUL  VERLAINE       7 

guid,  cajoling,  tender,  enervant ;  words  that  were 
caresses, —  his  art  was  at  once  subtle,  refined,  diffi- 
cult, and  inveterately  young.  His  was  the  subtle 
simplicity  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Huysmans,  with 
fine  clairvoyance,  saw  that  he  was  sib  to  Villon. 
His  individuality  was  dominant  and  insistent,  as  of 
some  great  soul  of  the  fifteenth  century.  He  had 
a  profound,  incurable,  and  salutary  egotism. 

In  his  youth  he  was  seduced  by  the  virtuosities 
of  the  Parnassians.  The  real  Verlaine  appeared  in 
the  "  Romances  sans  Parole,"  in  "  Sagesse,"  and  in 
certain  miraculous  poems  of  "  Jadis  et  Naguere." 
The  "  Poemes  Saturniens,"  which  appeared  in 
1867,  are  purely  Parnassian.  Fluent  verse,  ardent, 
sombre,  mad,  it  was  impeccably  fashioned.  But 
the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  this  school — du  dot's,  du  bois> 
et  encore  du  bois  —  is  cc  Les  Fetes  Galantes."  Here 
is  the  dream  of  a  pure  poet.  The  verse  is  formal : 
it  hints  of  pose  and  powder  and  the  Pompadour. 
It  is  sceptical  and  frivolous,  but  very  sincere.  See, 
then,  in  a  park,  de  Watteau, —  perhaps  in  Rubens's 
"Garden  of  Love," — nonchalant  girls  lounge  and 
whisper  scandal,  while  overhead  the  new  stars 
shine;  stately  ladies  pass,  insolently  beautiful;  the 
powdered  marquis  nods  to  the  silken  abbe, — 

L'abbe  divague. —  Et  toi,  marquis, 
Tu  mets  de  travers  ta  perruque. 
—  Ce  vieux  vin  de  Chypre  est  exquis. 
Moins,  Camargo,  que  votre  nuque. 


FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

—  Ma  flamme  ...     —  Do,  mi,  sol,  la,  si. 

—  L'abbe,  ta  noirceur  se  devoile. 

—  Que  je  meure,  mesdames,  si 
Je  ne  vous  decroche  une  etoile. 

—  Je  voudrais  etre  petit  chien  ! 

—  Embrassons  nos  bergeres,  1'une 
Apres  1'autre. —  Messieurs,  eh  bien  ? 

—  Do,  mi,  sol. —  He  !  bonsoir,  la  lune  ! 


With  the  "  Romances  sans  Paroles "  he  broke 
with  the  Impeccables. 

This  was  the  troubled  period  of  his  life,  the 
Rimbaud  period  of  his  life,  which  ended  in  the 
penitentiary  of  Mons. 

II  pleure  dans  mon  coeur 
Comme  il  pleut  sur  la  ville  — 

But  why  should  I  quote  the  verses  which  you 
have  known,  which  you  have  loved,  which  you 
have  whispered  in  the  impenetrable  hours  ?  After 
the  "Romances"  came  his  book  of  penitence,  the 
triumphal  book,  the  Wisdom  of  Paul  Verlaine. 
Here,  then,  is  "  Sagesse,"  a  white  lily  plucked  out 
of  the  pashed  mire  of  a  dirty  and  inquiet  life. 
Here,  then,  is  "  Sagesse,"  the  most  beautiful  book 
of  poetry  written  since  "  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai." 

Sin  had  lost  its  savor.  He  knelt  at  the  altar  he 
had  despised,  and  prayed  to  the  God  he  had 
mocked.     He  had  speech  with  God,  thus:  — 

Mon  Dieu  m'a  dit  :   Mon  fils,  il  faut  m' aimer. 


AN  IMPRESSION  OF  PAUL  VERLA1NE       9 

But  the  penitent  cried  :  — 

Je  ne  veux  pas  !     Je  suis  indigne.      Vous,  la  Rose 
Immense  des  purs  vents  de  1' Amour,  6  Vous,  tous 
Les  coeurs  des  saints,  6  Vous  qui  futes  le  Jaloux 
D' Israel,  Vous  la  chaste  abeille  qui  se  pose 

Sur  la  seule  fleur  d'une  innocence  mi-close, 

Quoi,  moi,  moi  pouvoir  Vous  aimer  ?     £tes-vous  fbus, 

Pere,  Fils,  Esprit  ? 

God  said  again  :  — 

II  faut  m'aimer.     Je  suis  Ces  Fous  que  tu  nommais. 

And  then  God  makes  plain  the  blessed  mystery 
of  the  Church  ;  and  the  poor  wretch,  full  of  trouble 
and  hope,  sees  a  vision. 

Des  Anges  bleus  et  blancs  portes  sur  des  pavois. 

Verlaine  was  not  a  man  of  letters.  At  the  end 
of  his  "Ars  Poetica,"  after  having  laid  down  the 
laws  of  indecisive  poetry,  he  says  with  divine  dis- 
dain, "  All  the  rest  is  literature." 

His  own  precepts  explain  his  art :  — 

Que  ton  vers  soit  la  chose  envoi  ee 
Qu'on  sent  qui  fuit  d'une  ame  en  allee 
Vers  d'autres  cieux  a  d'autres  amours. 

Que  ton  vers  soit  la  bonne  aventure 

Sparse  au  vent  crispe  du  matm 

Qui  va  fleurant  la  menthe  et  le  thym.    .  .  . 


io  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

C'est  des  beaux  yeux  derriere  des  voiles, 
C'est  le  grand  jour  tremblant  de  midi. 
C'est,  par  un  ciel  d'automne  attiedi, 
Le  bleu  fouillis  des  claires  etoiles  ! 


Verlaine  attempted  the  impossible.  He  strove 
all  his  life  to  reconcile  the  seven  deadly  sins  and  the 
three  cardinal  virtues.  He  wished  to  erect  in  the 
market-place  of  Gomorrah  a  statue  of  the  blessed 
Virgin.  A  weak  and  futile  man,  he  was  eminently 
human.  He  was  simple  and  intense.  He  was  an 
exaltation,  an  exasperation  of  the  modern  man,  at 
once  mocking  and  mystic. 

Now  being  dead, —  and  saved  or  damned, —  he 
is  an  accomplice  in  the  eternal  mystery. 

Priez  pour  le  pauvre  Gaspard  ! 


Stephane   Mallarme' 

TWENTY  years  ago,  in  the  time  of  the 
Parnassians,  there  was  a  poet  who  pub- 
lished his  incomprehensible  verses  in  ob- 
scure journals  over  the  name  of  Stephane  Mallarme, 
—  a  name  so  apt  that  it  rang  like  a  pseudonym. 
For  some  reason  or  other  his  verses  were  to  the 
critics  as  a  red  scarf  to  a  bull.  They  dragged  them 
from  obscurity.  They  tossed  and  gored  them. 
The  poor  poet  fared  little  better.  He  was  roared 
at  as  though  he  had  been  the  beast  of  the  Apoca- 
lypse. It  became  fashionable  to  gird  at  Mallarme. 
And  all  these  years  Mallarme  rowed  lustily 
against  the  stream.  He  made  no  concessions  to 
popularity.  Indifferent  as  a  faun,  he  went  his  mys- 
tic way.  Little  by  little  his  work,  became  known 
to  those  whom  it  was  once  the  mode  to  call  cog- 
noscenti. In  Germany,  in  Poland,  in  the  United 
States,  as  in  France,  Mallarme  gained  lovers  and 
disciples.  A  few  years  ago  he  received  a  splendidly 
public  recognition.  It  was  in  February,  1896. 
He  was  named  Poete  des  Poetes  by  acclaim  of  all 
the  poets  of  France.  A  regular  election  was  held, 
at  which  almost  every  Frenchman  of  letters  voted. 
Men    as   diverse    in    their  literary  appreciations   as 


12  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Coppee  and  Rette  agreed  in  their  admiration  for 
Mallarme.  I  happen  to  know  how  sincerely  Mal- 
larme appreciated  this  honor.  He  had  faced  the 
jibes  and  sneers  with  serene  impassibility,  but  the 
praise  of  his  contemporaries  broke  down  his  guard. 

For  over  two  years  he  lived  in  the  full  blaze  of 
fame.  Pilgrims  to  Paris  visited  him,  as  of  old  they 
visited  Victor  Hugo.  He  was  the  most  discussed 
and  the  most  conspicuous  man  of  letters  in  France. 

He  died  in  1898. 

Mallarme  was  a  frugal  and  painful  writer.  He 
left  no  great  bulk  of  work.  No  more  than  Botti- 
celli, no  more  than  Bach,  will  he  ever  be  popular. 
And  yet  I  do  not  believe  that  any  one  has  had 
a  greater  —  a  more  tyrannical  —  influence  on  the 
young  artistic  generation  than  has  he.  When  nat- 
uralism was  most  triumphant,  he  stood  out  against 
it.  Indeed,  he  was  the  incarnation  of  the  literary 
revolt  against  the  debasing  realism  that  made  Zola 
and  destroyed  Maupassant.  He  began  with  the 
Parnassians,  but  he  went  far  beyond  them.  As 
patiently  as  Gautier,  he  chiselled  his  verses ;  but  to 
each  verse  he  gave  —  as  it  were  —  a  second  inten- 
tion. It  is  not  quite  easy  to  get  at  the  heart  of  his 
mystery ;  but  his  theory  may,  I  think,  be  explained 
in  this  way.  He  held,  then,  that  each  verse  should 
be  at  once  a  plastic  image,  the  expression  of  a 
thought  and  a  philosophic  symbol ;  and  it  should 
be  as  well  a  musical  phrase  and  a  part,  also,  of  the 
entire  melody  that  made  up  the  poem. 


STEPHANE  MALLARME  13 

"  Without  a  musical  education,"  he  said  once, 
"  you  would  riot  pretend  to  understand  a  Beethoven 
symphony  or  a  Mozart  sonata.  Why,  then,  with- 
out any  education  in  the  technique  of  poetry,  should 
one  pretend  to  understand  poetry  ?  " 

This  remark,  I  think,  gives  a  deeper  insight  into 
Mallarme's  theory  of  poetry  than  I  could  give  by 
pages  of  exegesis.  He  made  poetry  music.  If 
Euclid  was  the  man  of  lines,  Mallarme  was  the  man 
of  verbal  sonorities.  His  fervor  for  the  word  was 
such  that  he  came  to  look  upon  objects  merely  for 
the  beauty  of  the  word  that  represented  them. 
The  music  of  vowels,  the  exquisite  dissonances  of 
diphthongs,  fascinated  him.  He  has  always  re- 
minded me  of  the  rhetors  of  Alexandria  and  dying 
Rome.  Like  Apollonius,  like  Callimachus,  he  was 
a  lover  of  the  naked  word,  the  word  that  glistened 
and  rustled.  He  would  have  understood  the  en- 
thusiasm of  the  Scotch  housewife  for  that  blessed 
word  "  Mesopotamia." 

As  I  have  said,  Mallarme  began  among  the  Par- 
nassians,—  De  Banville,  Leconte  de  Lisle,  Verlaine, 
Villiers  de  l'lsle  Adam.  His  earlier  verses  are  per- 
fectly comprehensible,  if,  in  fact,  they  are  not  banal. 
I  have  before  me  the  "  Herodiade,"  with  all  its 
common  rhythms,  usual  images,  and  sweet  verbal 
music.  Swinburne  might  have  written  it.  (It  is 
well  to  remember  that  Mallarme,  who  was  professor 
of  English  at  the  College   Rollin,  was  a  student  of 


i4  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Swinburne,  though  his  main  debt  is  due  to  two 
Americans, —  Emerson  and  Poe.)  The  melody  of 
this  early  verse  recalls  the  juvenile  phrases  of  Beet- 
hoven. 

His  perfect  sonnets,  that  on  the  Tomb  of  Edgar 
Poe,  that  on  Wagner,  poems  like  "  Les  Fleurs  "  and 
"  Eventail,"  and  the  eclogue  I  have  mentioned,  are 
sure  of  literary  longevity.  Yet  I  should  not  be  sur- 
prised were  his  translation  of  Poe's  poems  his  best 
prophylactic  to  oblivion.  He  has  given  an  exact 
transcript  of  Poe's  thought,  and  has  echoed  all  his 
haunting  music.  Among  his  other  prose  works  is 
an  admirable  essay  on  "  Vathek,"  which  Beckford 
claimed  (though  it  is  thought  he  lied)  was  originally 
written  in  French.  Of  his  prose  I  think  it  may  be 
said  that  it  has  all  the  vices.  It  is  tortured  and 
hectic  and  dark.  It  twists  and  turns  upon  itself  like 
a  wounded  snake.  It  seems  deep  —  often,  I  fear  — 
merely  because  it  is  muddy. 

His  last  prose  work  is  "Variations  sur  un  Sujet," 
in  which  he  justifies  his  art  and  exults  in  his  sterility. 
Not  his  least  boast  is  that  he  has  published  so  little. 

Mallarme's  private  life  was  very  beautiful, —  a 
contrast  to  the  draggled,  pathetic  life  of  poor  Ver- 
laine.  In  one  of  his  books  Verlaine  classes  Mal- 
larme  among  the  poetes  maudits.  He  was  anything 
but  that, —  this  studious  and  reasonable  gentleman. 
Into  his  life  there  came  no  tragic  and  vagabond  fer- 
vors, as  in  his  poetry  there  is  neither  anger  nor  dirt. 


Stephane  Mallarme 


STEPHANE  MALLARME  15 

His  poems  are  moral  —  or  immoral  —  as  a  cloud  or 
a  singing  stream. 

He  was  born  in  Paris  in  1842.  His  early  man- 
hood was  spent  in  teaching  English  in  provincial 
colleges.  He  came  up  to  Paris  about  fifteen  years 
ago,  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  His  books  brought 
him  little  money ;  and  he  lived  on  his  collegiate 
stipend,  modestly  enough,  in  an  apartment  near  the 
Luxembourg.  His  family  consisted  of  a  wife  and 
daughter.  It  was  his  daughter  who  drove  the 
famous  donkey-cart, —  the  price  of  a  poem  that  by 
some  chance  had  been  bought  and  paid  for.  Mal- 
larme  lived  very  quietly.  He  made  few  acquaint- 
ances. It  was  as  difficult  to  see  him  as  any  man  in 
Paris.  His  opinion  of  the  interviewer  was  Luther's 
opinion  of  the  devil.  And  yet  to  those  who  had 
gained  his  friendship  he  was  a  rare  friend,  indul- 
gent, stanch,  and  tender.  Notwithstanding  the  in- 
transigeance  of  his  theories,  no  man  was  readier  to 
recognize  the  talent  of  others.  He  was  a  friend  of 
the  Goncourts,  he  loved  Daudet,  he  appreciated 
Zola,  and  the  most  magnificent  tribute  laid  upon 
poor  Villiers  de  l'lsle  Adam's  tomb  was  Mallarme's 
funeral  oration.  In  the  days  when  in  France  it  was 
a  crime  against  patriotism  to  praise  Wagner,  Mal- 
larme  not  only  defended  his  work,  but  defended  it 
with  the  prescience  of  one  who  foresaw  its  tendency. 
He  fought  for  Manet,  Rodin,  and  Degas,  when 
every  man's  hand  was  against  them.  He  discovered 
Cheret.     He  introduced  Maeterlinck  to  fame. 


1 6  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Americans  will  not  willingly  forget  that  it  was  due 
to  Mallarme  that  Whistler's  masterpiece  —  the  por- 
trait of  his  mother — found  a  home  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg. 

Mallarme  was  the  head  and  front  of  the  symbol- 
ists. 

Indeed,  in  writing  of  the  symbolists,  it  is  neces- 
sary only  to  mention  Stephane  Mallarme.  I  say  this 
not  without  knowledge  of  Rene  Ghil,  whose  books 
I  read  very  faithfully  once  upon  a  time.  Nor  need 
it  here  be  any  question  of  Maurice  Maeterlinck  and 
his  dark  followers ;  nor  of  William  Sharp,  who  is 
merely  an  inerudite  translator.  Ghil  (like  Ver- 
haeren)  is  of  Flemish  origin,  and  claims  Spanish 
blood.  His  work  is,  in  a  large  measure,  an  euphu- 
istic  elaboration  of  Mallarme.  His  euphuism  led 
him  to  expand  Rimbaud's  famous  theory  of  the 
color  of  the  vowels, —  A,  black;  E,  white;  I,  red; 
U,  green ;  O,  blue.  He  found  their  tone  equiva- 
lents. For  him  the  organ  is  black,  the  harp  white, 
the  violins  blue,  the  brasses  red,  and  the  flutes 
yellow.  He  went  even  further,  and  assigned  to 
each  consonant  its  hue  and  tone.  All  of  which  is 
inutile  and  Active. 


I  wish  to  give  as  clear  an  explanation  as  I  can  of 
the  symbol  as   Mallarme  uses  it.      George  Moore, 


STEPHANE  MALLARME  17 

in  his  "  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man,"  touches 
upon  the  matter,  but  darkly  and  inadequately.  So 
far  as  I  know,  no  helpful  analysis  has  yet  been 
made.  Mr.  Sharp  is  quite  abroad,  and  Mr.  Moore 
halts. 

In  the  first  place,  one  must  get  away  from  the 
antique  meaning  of  the  word  "  symbol  "  ;  for  it  is 
evident  that  all  literature  is  symbolic.  Indeed,  in  a 
wide  sense  of  the  word,  Shakspere  is  an  impeni- 
tent—  and  in  the  sonnets  an  immoral  —  symbolist. 

Mallarme  has  narrowed  the  meaning  of  the  word. 
With  him  symbolism  is  at  once  a  mode  of  thought 
and  a  form  of  expression. 

His  theory  of  poetry  is  a  plain  matter,  an  Hel- 
lenic commonplace.  It  is  the  duty  of  poetry  — 
art  of  sounds  and  rhythms  —  to  create  emotions. 
Now  the  emotions,  it  is  evident,  are  inseparable 
from  their  causes,  from  the  ideas  which  evoke  them. 

Pleasure  nor  grief  exists  abstractly :  there  are 
pleasant  ideas  or  grievous  ones.  There  must  be  a 
nice  adjustment  between  the  emotions  and  the  syl- 
lables and  rhythms  chosen  to  evoke  them.  The 
emotions  Mallarme  wishes  to  excite  are  those  of 
intellectual  joy,  of  subtile  speculation,  the  extreme 
joy  of  thought  about  thought.  The  symbol  is  his 
motif,  which  he  develops  logically  and  inevitably, 
through  premeditated  syllables,  evocative  of  certain 
emotions. 

Take,  for  instance,  his  "  Faune." 


1 8  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

A  faun  in  the  glow  of  an  antique  afternoon  saw 
light  nymphs,  loving  and  joyous.  They  fled.  And 
the  faun  is  sad :  it  was  a  dream, —  gone  forever. 
But  he  understands  that  all  things  seen  are  merely 
dreams  of  the  soul.  He  summons  again  the  mad 
and  loving  phantoms.  He  re-creates  their  forms. 
Their  hot  kisses  stain  his  lips,  He  would  fain 
clasp  the  fairest;  and  again  the  vision  vanishes. 
But  how  vain  would  be  regret !  For,  when  he  will, 
he  may  recall  the  riant  nymphs,  phantasies  of  the 
soul. 

This  is  at  once  Mallarme's  philosophy  and  mode. 

ft  £  ♦  *  :i=  *  ♦  * 

Poetry  is  an  art  as  complex,  as  subtile  and  diffi- 
cult, as  the  art  of  music.  For  a  man  unlearned  in 
the  art  of  music  to  admire  Beethoven  is  an  affecta- 
tion and  impertinence.  Why  should  the  unin- 
structed  person  pretend  to  judge  the  equally  elab- 
orate art  of  poetry?     It  is  absurd. 

Mallarme  wrote  for  the  savant  in  this  beautiful 
art. 

Here  and  there  a  precise  word,  premeditated, 
logical,  necessary  for  the  development  of  the  motif; 
for  the  rest,  syllables  purely  musical. 

"  A  noble  poet  is  dead.  Regrets  ?  But  what, 
then,  is  the  death  of  a  man  but  the  vanishing  of 


STEPHANE  MALLARME  19 

one  of  our  dreams  ?  Men,  whom  we  believe  real, 
are  but  the  triste  opacite  de  leurs  spectres  futurs. 
But  the  poet,  beyond  his  vain  physical  existence, 
lives  for  us  a  high,  imperishable  life.  The  poet  is 
a  solemn  agitation  of  words :  the  death  of  a  poet 
purifies  our  fiction  of  him."  He  wrote  this  of 
Gautier. 

Another  symbol :  — 

"In  a  desolate  cloister-cell  an  old  monk  tran- 
scribes patient  writings.  He  has  lived  ignorant  and 
chaste.  He  copies  an  ancient  manuscript,  it  may  be 
some  naif  romance  of  Alexandria,  in  which  two 
laughing  children  meet,  and  kiss  timidly.  And  de- 
sire creeps  into  the  empty,  idle  soul  of  the  good 
monk.  He  summons  the  lovers  to  live  for  him 
their  moods  of  tenderness  and  passion.  And  forth- 
with he  himself  comes  to  be  this  young  and 
happy  lover." 

This  is  from  the  prose  for  "  Des  Esseintes."  Is 
it  a  souvenir  or  a  dream  ?  Perhaps  the  fantastic 
hyperbole  of  a  far-off  recollection.  The  monk 
wishes  in  his  cell  to  live  the  young  and  splendid 
life  of  love.  And  he  lives  it.  He  walks  with  the 
riant  girl  in  familiar  gardens.  Touched  with  love, 
he  sees  a  transfigured  world.  The  flowers  are 
larger —  great  lilies  nod  enchanted.  He  wanders  in  a 
radiant  dream.  Then  love  passes,  and  the  miracle 
is  finished.  He  dreams  again  that  he  is  a  poor  old 
monk.    Vainly  he  cries  to  the  riant  girl.     He  bends 


20  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

again  over  his  parchments,  a  phantom  irked  by  an 
obscure  destiny.  He  waits  until  this  dream,  too, 
shall  be  effaced,  when  the  black  pall  falls  and 
death  is. 

Mallarme  published  this  sonnet  not  long  ago :  — 

Surgi  de  la  croupe  et  du  bond 
D'une  verrerie  ephemere, 
Sans  fleurir  la  veillee  amere 
Le  col  ignore  s'interrompt. 

Je  crois  bien  que  deux  bouches  n'ont 
Bu,  ni  son  amant  ni  ma  mere 
Jamais  a  la  meme  chimere 
Moi,  sylphe,  de  ce  froid  plafond  ! 

Le  pur  vase  d'aucun  breuvage 
Que  1' inexhaustible  veuvage 
Agonise,  mais  ne  consent, 

Naif  baiser  des  plus  funebres, 
A  rien  expirer  annoncant 
Une  rose  dans  les  tenebres. 

It  may  be  that  in  some  such  way  as  this  he  ap- 
proached his  symbol :  There  is  on  the  table  a 
vase,  delicate,  fragile,  in  which  lately  the  flowers 
stood  radiant.  The  poet  perceives  it.  He  con- 
siders its  exquisite  form,  daintily  turned ;  the 
shapely  flanks  which  seem  to  throb.  He  observes 
the  neck  rising  gracefully  to  end  in  sudden  inter- 
ruption. Sadly  the  poet  muses  that  no  flower  is 
there  to  console  his  bitter  vigil.     And  here,  I  take 


STEPHANE  MALLARME  21 

it,  is  the  point  of  poetical  departure.  Why,  then, 
cannot  he  find  in  himself,  the  poet,  this  flower 
which  he  desires  ?  Can  he  not  by  his  sovereign 
will  evoke  one  flower?  No  doubt  by  his  very 
birth  he  is  condemned  to  this  inefficiency :  an 
antique  and  hereditary  inertia  cumbers  him.  No 
doubt  his  parents  neglected  to  dower  him  with 
this  power  of  evocation,  neglected  to  drink  at  the 
fecund  spring  of  chimera ;  and  now  the  spring  is 
dry.  The  poet  agonizes,  and  in  vain.  The  vase  is 
empty.  For  him  there  is  only  sad  vacuity,  empty ; 
and  his  revolt  is  empty.  He  cannot  summon  the 
dead. 


And,  finally,  read  this  sonnet :  — 

Une  den  telle  s'abolit 

Dans  le  doute  du  Jeu  supreme 

A  n'entr'ouvrir,  comme  un  blaspheme, 

Qu' absence  eternelle  de  lit. 

Cet  unanime  blanc  conflit 
D'une  guirlande  avec  la  meme, 
Enfui  contre  la  vitre  bleme, 
Flotte  plus  qu'il  n'enselevit. 

Mais  chez  qui  du  reve  se  dore, 
Tristement  dort  une  mandore 
Au  creux  neant  musicien, 

Telle  que,  vers  quelque  fenetre, 
Selon  nul  ventre  que  le  sien, 
Filial  on  aurait  pu  naitre. 


22  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

A  lace  curtain, —  this  is  the  subject,  the  symbol, 
the  motifs  the  poet's  point  of  departure.  He  sees 
the  lace  curtain  hanging  at  his  window.  It  suggests 
to  him  a  nuptial  couch.  Then  he  perceives  there 
is  no  bed  under  the  swaying  lace :  this  to  him  seems 
a  blasphemy, —  futile  lace  stretched  across  the  pale 
and  empty  window.  He  watches  the  white,  monot- 
onous conflict  of  vague  lines  on  the  shadowy  win- 
dow-panes ;  but  he  cannot  recover  that  fugitive 
impression  of  a  nuptial  couch.  But  now  the  Dream 
comes,  and  effaces  his  regret :  because,  in  the  soul  of 
him  who  knows  the  Dream,  a  lute  wakes  eternally ; 
because  in  the  secret  soul  of  him  the  magic  mandora 
of  phantasy  wakes  evermore.  What  matters,  then, 
the  absence  of  a  bed  under  this  lace  ?  The  poet 
conceives  himself  delivered  of  the  Dream,  child  of 
this  phantasy  which  dwells  ever  in  the  soul.  The 
curving  contour  of  the  lute, —  is  it  not  the  royal 
womb  where  grows,  safe  from  the  exasperations  of 
daily  existence,  the  intimate  life,  the  patient  immor- 
tal life  of  art? 

And  this  lace,  fluctuant,  vague,  is  indeed  the 
sumptuous  curtain  of  a  bed  truly  real, —  bed  where 
the  poet  himself  is  born. 

if  *  If:  M:  :=:  #  %  # 

To  turn  one  of  Mallarme's  golden  symbols  into 
even  barren  and  sodden  prose  is  at  once  difficult 
and  absurd.  It  is  as  though  one  were  to  write  out 
in  drab  words  a  Chopin  etude. 


STEPHANE  MALLARME  23 

My  whole  attempt  has  been  to  expose,  in  a  slight 
measure,  Mallarme's  technique, —  his  method  of 
using  the  symbol.  The  familiar  object  is  his  point 
of  departure :  he  passes  thence  to  its  poetical  inten- 
tion. And,  again,  his  thematic  development  is 
carried  on  by  certain  chosen,  premeditated  words ; 
for  the  rest  there  is  only  syllabic  color  and  syllabic 
tone. 

Mallarme  was  not  the  initiator  of  a  new  poetry, 
like  Walt  Whitman.  He  was  the  last  and  most 
perfect  of  an  old  school.  He  merely  pushed  to 
their  extreme  consequences  the  principles  which  all 
the  great  French  poets  since  the  Renascence  had 
admitted,  and,  indeed,  championed.  He  followed 
more  closely  what  he  called  the  "instinct  of  elusive 
rhythms " :  he  discerned  more  plainly  the  occult, 
significant,  and  mysterious  symbol  qui  habite  le  com- 
mun ;  and  that  is  all. 


The  Belgian   Renascence 

Camille   Lemonnier 

IN  Flandres  al  byyonde  the  se,"  as  Sir  Thopas 
sang,  there  has  grown  up  a  new  art.  At  first 
glance  you  are  struck  with  its  strange  and  pro- 
found melancholy.  In  the  paintings  of  De  Brae- 
keler,  in  the  grim  etchings  of  Felicien  Rops,  in  the 
pale  legends  of  Maurice  Maeterlinck,  in  the  stormy 
verse  of  Emile  Verhaeren,  in  the  fervid  prose  of 
Georges  Eekhoud,  there  broods  this  vague  melan- 
choly,—  the  perfume  of  dead  lavender  and  faded 
flowers.  With  all  this  the  old  robust  manner  is 
not  dead.  This  Verhaeren  is  a  Berserker  of  verse. 
This  Eekhoud  has  a  grip  of  steel  on  life. 

In  this  renascence  the  painters  led  the  way. 
From  the  viewpoint  of  literature,  Belgium  was  a 
desert  before  1880.  Camille  Lemonnier,  to  be 
sure,  had  written  three  or  four  of  his  wonderful 
novels, —  "Un  Coin  de  Village,"  "  Les  Charniers," 
"  Un  Male " ;  but  he  was  as  one  crying  in  the 
night.  In  the  year  I  have  mentioned  there  came 
up  to  Brussels  (from  Lou  vain  and  Ghent  and 
Bruges  and  many  an  Old  World  town)  a  band  of 
young  men,  who  carried  the  flag  of  la  jeune  Bel- 
gique.  They  were  defiantly  young.  They  wore 
amaranthine   waistcoats    and   flving   scarves.      Thev 

24 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  25 

had  theories, —  art  for  art,  art  for  the  beautiful. 
They  founded  a  review.  They  fought  for  their 
ideas.  They  attacked  the  enemy, —  this  indifferent 
and  dense  public  that  is  always  the  enemy  of  young 
poets.  They  were  cruel,  unjust,  cynical,  as  only 
very  young  men  can  be.  They  entered  literature 
like  a  band  of  Sioux.  All  this  was  well  enough  in 
its  way,  and  was,  indeed,  inevitable.  Belgian  liter- 
ature had  become  a  dull  trade  for  dull  gazetteers 
and  duller  professors.  Had  this  young  Sibyl  ap- 
peared without  contortions,  no  one  would  have  be- 
lieved in  her  inspiration. 

Among  the  founders  of  the  new  review  were 
Max  Waller  and  Iwan  Gilkin.  The  former  died 
when  he  was  still  very  young  M.  Gilkin  has  de- 
generated into  a  disappointed  and  atrabilious  critic, 
who  gives  his  days  and  nights  to  throwing  stones  at 
those  who  were  once  his  fellows.  The  others  who 
took  leading  parts  in  this  movement  were  Emile 
Verhaeren,  Georges  Eekhoud,  Albert  Giraud,  and 
Georges  Rodenbach.  The  doyen  of  the  little  band 
was  Camille  Lemonnier.  In  his  name  the  first 
public  revolt  was  organized.  This  was  in  1883. 
At  the  end  of  every  five  years  the  State  awards  a 
prize  of  a  few  thousand  francs  to  the  author  of  the 
best  book  which  has  appeared  during  the  half- 
decade.  That  year  the  jury  decided  that  no  book 
worthy  of  the  distinction  had  been  published. 
Young    Belgium   declared  that   this  was  an  official 


26  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

insult  to  M.  Lemonnier,  their  mar'echal  de  lettres. 
It  denounced  the  insult  at  a  public  banquet.  A 
great  many  fiery  speeches  were  made.  Perhaps 
nothing  was  accomplished ;  but,  at  all  events,  young 
Belgium  had  measured  swords  with  the  State,  and 
had  learned  its  own  strength.  In  the  days  to  come 
it  was  to  win  many  a  victory  over  the  literary  bu- 
reaucracy. In  the  mean  time  they  published  their 
books, —  first-fruits  of  the  renascence, —  the  "  Kees 
Dornik "  of  Eekhoud,  Verhaeren's  "  Les  Fla- 
mandes,"  and  Rodenbach's  "  Mer  Elegante."  The 
history  of  literary  groups  of  this  sort  varies  but 
slightly.  They  are  born  in  vehemence  and  enthu- 
siasm. They  ride  loyally  out  to  attack  the  old 
modes  and  prejudices.  They  troop  home  with  the 
spoils,  singing.  Then  life  in  camp  grows  dull. 
Good  friends  rise  at  dawn  to  cross  swords  with  each 
other, — fer  contre  fer  au  spadassin.  In  the  end  each 
goes  his  own  way,  leaving,  perhaps,  one  or  two  of 
the  faithful  —  those  sad  conservatives  who,  having 
once  been  young,  are  faithful  always  to  youth  —  to 
guard  the  deserted  camp.  This  was  the  history  of 
the  Parnassians.  It  was  the  history  of  la  jeune  Bel- 
gique.  Verhaeren  went  his  way.  Eekhoud  went 
his  way.  Even  the  mar'echal  of  letters  went  his 
way.  The  old  cry  of  art  for  art  had  become  mean- 
ingless to  them.  Each  of  them,  as  best  he  could, 
engaged  his  art  in  the  service  of  a  cause.  They 
entered  into  life.     The  old  formulae  on  which  thev 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  27 

had  whetted  their  swords  were  left  in  the  rubbish 
of  the  camp.  To  me  there  is  something  not  unpa- 
thetic  in  the  picture  of  that  deserted  camp  —  the 
old  flag  hanging  limp,  the  fires  burned  out  —  where 
Iwan  Gilkin  stands  on  guard,  and  challenges  the 
empty  night.  More  French  than  the  French,  he 
would  fain  hang  all  these  deserters  who  fled  from 
the  old  Parnassian  standard. 

It  is,  I  believe,  the  unaggravated  truth  that  every 
great  artist  rows  against  the  stream.  Even  so  essen- 
tially Philistine  an  artist  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  turned 
his  prow  up  stream  now  and  then.  To  be  sure,  he 
apologized  humbly  enough  (in  a  notable  preface), 
and  declared  that  never  again  would  he  be  "  perti- 
nacious in  defence  of  his  errors  against  the  voice  of 
the  public  " ;  but  that  was  in  his  time  of  unworthi- 
ness.  The  strong  artist  usually  makes  his  own 
audience.  A  book  very  useful  to  young  writers 
might  be  written  on  "  How  an  Audience  is  made." 
It  was  Leopardi's  subtle  theory  that  the  surest  way 
for  a  man  to  acquire  a  reputation  is  to  assert  confi- 
dently and  persistently  that  he  has  already  acquired 
it.  "Another  way" — as  Mr.  Lang  says  Mrs. 
Glasse  says  in  her  cook  book  —  is  to  select  ener- 
getic disciples.  This  was  the  successful  way  of 
Camille  Lemonnier.  He  is  a  man  of  vigorous  intel- 
lect rather  than  great  mind.  He  has  written  dainty 
tales  in  the  manner  of  Droz  and  Halevy.  He 
has  painted  enormous  and  sombre  frescos  of  peas- 


28  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

ant  life.  He  has  touched  modern  society  at  almost 
every  point.  His  style  is  polymorphous.  Take 
up  his  books  one  after  another,  the  "  Fin  des  Bour- 
geois "  after  "  Happe-Chair,"  the  "  Faute  de  Mme. 
Charvet "  after  "  Claudine  Lamour,"  and  you  can 
hardly  make  yourself  believe  they  were  written  by 
one  hand.  He  is  the  victim  of  his  own  flexile  and 
uncontrollable  imagination.  A  brilliant  writer,  un- 
questionably ;  an  accomplished  and  fecund  novel- 
ist, beyond  doubt.  His  chief  importance,  however, 
is  that  the  Belgian  renascence  in  literature  dates  from 
his  first  book. 


Maurice   Maeterlinck 

The  moon  shines  down  upon  Brussels. 

You  knock  at  the  door  of  a  house  in  the  Rue  du 
Marais.  It  is  a  small  house,  humble  and  reticent ; 
but  in  the  window  of  the  first-pair-front  there  shines 
a  light,  like  a  human  soul.  To  the  little  Walloon 
maid  who  comes  to  your  knock  you  say,  "  M. 
Maurice  Maeterlinck."  Carelessly,  indifferently 
as  one  points  to  a  mile-stone,  she  points  up  the 
dark  staircase.  "First  on  your  right,  M'sieu,"  she 
says. 

You  tap  on  the  panel.  It  is  M.  Maeterlinck 
who  admits  you.  Though  he  makes  his  home  in 
Ghent,  he  has  this  pied-a-terre  in  Brussels  ;  for  now 
and  again  he  comes  up  to  enjoy  the  distractions  of 
a  great  city.  It  is  a  plain  little  apartment,  grimly 
like  your  own  pied-a-terre  in  the  Rue  du  Prince 
Albert.  There  is  the  same  acacia-wood  furniture, — 
the  bed,  the  table,  the  sofa,  the  chairs, —  the  vulgar 
rugs,  the  brass  candlestick,  the  dusky  mirror.  The 
walls,  however,  are  beneficed  with  engravings  and 
photographs  of  Burne-Jones's  pictures  of  "  The 
Golden  Stair,"  "  Flamma  Vestalis,"  and  the  "  Mir- 
ror of  Venus,"  and  many  others. 

"  He  is  the  greatest  of  painters,"  says  Maurice 
Maeterlinck ;  "  and  his  soul  is  sib  to  my  soul." 

*9 


3o  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

In  a  few  weeks  Burne-Jones  is  to  die;  but  that 
hangs  yet  in  the  future,  undreamed  of. 

Maurice  Maeterlinck  sits  on  the  sofa,  his 
long  legs  crossed.  With  his  square  shoulders,  his 
brusque  mustaches,  his  short,  stiff  blond  hair,  and 
his  steady  blue  eyes,  he  has  the  air  of  a  trooper  out 
of  a  man's  novel.  You  speak  to  him  of  Ghent, 
his  ancient  city. 

"It  is  the  soul  of  Flanders,"  he  says,  " at  once 
venerable  and  young.  In  its  streets  the  past  and 
the  present  elbow  each  other." 

And  then  he  tells  you  of  the  changes  that  have 
taken  place  in  the  old  city  since  last  you  were  there  : 
how  the  small  shops  that  clung  like  limpets  round 
the  base  of  St.  Nicolas  are  being  chopped  away ; 
how  the  old  Chateau  des  Comtes  de  Flandres  is 
being  put  into  fourteenth-century  condition,  even 
to  the  archers'  turrets,  scarps  and  counter-scarps ; 
how  the  band  of  the  Eleventh  Foot  plays  in  the 
Place  d'Armes  every  Wednesday  evening;  and 
many  other  notable  things. 

The  moon  shines  down  upon  Brussels  town,  and 
yet  in  the  air  are  hints  and  instigations  of  rain. 
Maurice  Maeterlinck  clothes  himself  in  a  long  gray 
mackintosh,  and  sets  on  his  head  a  little  round  hat, 
—  pitifully  small  and  round.  He  leads  the  way 
into  the  street,  and  you  follow.  In  the  Rue  du 
Marais  he  glances  up  at  the  moon,  sombrely,  as  one 
who  should  say :  — 


Maurice  Maeterlinck 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  31 

It  is  not  a  large  moon  that  shines  down  on  Brus- 
sels. No,  it  is  not  a  large  moon  that  shines  down 
upon  the  gas-lit  streets  and  upon  the  gray  towers 
of  St.  Gudule  and  upon  the  shadowy  mannikin, — 
eternal  and  shadowy  protest.  It  is  a  moon  of  man- 
suetude  and  poverty,  mirroring  itself  in  the  lassitude 
of  the  canals  and  in  the  sweetness  of  the  flowers  and 
in  the  eyes  of  sad  women.  And  it  is  a  moon  pale 
as  an  agonizing  tree ;  and  it  is  a  moon  all-weary,  so 
old  it  is,  a  very  old  moon,  a  moon  before  Christ,  a 
moon  that  saw  the  antique  Pan  die  and  Hylas  die 
among  the  white  nymphs  in  the  fountain ;  and  it  is 
a  moon  of  La  Jeunesse.  And  the  sky  floats  darkly ; 
and  it  is  small  and  blue,  like  the  cloak  of  a  poet. 

A  warm,  thin  rain  falls ;  but  the  moon  is  not  hid. 
At  the  Galeries  St.  Hubert,  Maurice  Maeterlinck 
says :  "  I  rarely  go  to  the  theatre.  When  I  go,  I 
am  always  deceived."  In  the  Galerie  de  la  Reine, 
he  adds :  "  What  is  there  in  these  plays  produced 
every  year,  here  and  in  Paris  and  everywhere  ? 
Little  jests  about  little  intrigues,  little  people  play- 
ing with  little  passions.  Little  sketches  of  the 
superficies  of  life, —  little  adulteries,  little  sins.  Seen 
from  the  moon,  how  trivial  it  must  seem  !" 

You  are  in  the  Rue  de  la  Madeleine,  and  Maurice 
Maeterlinck  looks  up  at  the  moon.  His  blue  eyes 
beckon  it.  His  yellow  mustaches  mime  to  it. 
Slowly  you  climb  the  hill,  and  he  says :  "  Of  what 
possible   significance  is  it  that  a  husband   avenges 


32  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

his  honor  or  that  a  lover  kills  his  mistress  ?  The 
divine  art  of  the  stage,  should  it  not  have  a  nobler 
object?  " 

Thus  he  mocks  at  him  whom  he  calls  Dumafisse, 
and  others  of  his  kind,  and  pays  out  golden  words 
to  the  Greek  tragedies  and  the  plays  of  Shakspere 
and  his  mighty  contemporaries. 

At  the  Rue  St.  Jean :  "  I  enter  a  theatre  only  to 
be  disappointed.  I  go  in  the  hope  of  perceiving 
some  fragment  of  life,  of  breaking  the  monotone  of 
my  humble,  quotidian  existence  by  a  moment  of 
beauty  and  grandeur,  of  touching,  as  it  were,  the 
hem  of  the  eternal  mystery.  I  am  forced  to  listen 
to  childish  stories  of  silly  people.  I  want  to  see 
men,  and  they  show  me  heroes.  We  have  not 
made  a  step.  We  are  inferior  to  the  poets  of  an- 
tiquity, who  put  on  the  stage  the  battle  of  man 
against  the  gods ;  that  is  to  say,  the  problem  of 
earthly  destiny.  These  noble  inquietudes  have  dis- 
appeared. The  drama  is  dying  in  the  hands  of  the 
vaudevillistes.  It  is  the  most  retrograde  of  all  the 
arts.     The  hour  has  come  to  regenerate  it." 

At  the  Place  Royale  the  rain  ceases.  The  moon 
shines  down  upon  Brussels,  faintly  and  incuriously. 
In  front  of  the  Comte's  palace  the  guards  pace  dili- 
gently, rapping  the  pavement  with  their  iron  heels. 
The  blue  trams  from  the  Bourse  crawl  up  the  hill 
behind  four  huge  blown  horses.  Everywhere,  as 
far  as  you  can  see,  are  the  silhouettes  of  girls,  their 


THE  BELGIAN   RENASCENCE  33 

gowns  tossed  by  the  wind  ;  and  overhead  glooms 
the  imperious  statue  of  Godfrey  de  Bouillon. 
Maurice  Maeterlinck  looks  at  the  statue.  Then  he 
draws  his  hand  across  the  flame  of  his  eyes,  and 
says  :  — 

"  The  strange  and  silent  tragedy  of  being  !  Al- 
most all  our  dramatic  authors  perceive  only  the 
violent  life  —  its  external  adventures  —  or  the  life 
of  other  days.  Our  drama  is  an  anachronism. 
Like  sculpture,  it  is  not  of  this  age.  Only  the 
painters  and  musicians  have  been  able  to  reproduce 
the  hidden  traits  of  to-day, —  hidden,  but  not  the 
less  grave  and  astonishing.  They  have  perceived 
that  life  has  lost  its  surface  decoration,  only  to  gain 
in  depth,  in  significance,  and  in  spiritual  gravity. 
A  good  painter  would  not  paint  the  victory  of  Duke 
Godefroy  or  the  assassination  of  the  Duke  of  Guise, 
because  the  psychology  of  victory  and  of  murder  is 
elementary  and  exceptional.  He  would  represent 
a  house  in  the  fields,  a  door  opening  from  a  cor- 
ridor, a  face  or  hands  in  repose  :  these  simple  im- 
ages can  add  something  to  our  consciousness  of  life. 
Our  dramatic  authors,  like  bad  painters,  place  the 
interest  of  their  works  in  the  violence  of  the  anec- 
dote they  reproduce, —  always  the  Duke  Godefroy 
is  conquering  or  the  Duke  of  Guise  is  being  killed. 
They  try  to  interest  us  in  the  acts  that  pleased  the 
barbarians,  who  were  part  of  these  stormy  advent- 
ures.    Most  of  our  vices  have  nothing  to  do   with 


34  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

blood  and  cries  and  swords :  the  very  tears  of  men 
have  become  silent,  invisible,  spiritual." 

Rue  de  Namur :  "  I  admire  Othello  ;  but  he  does 
not  appear  to  me  to  live  the  august  quotidian  life 
of  a  Hamlet,  who  has  time  to  live  because  he  does 
not  act.  It  is  not  in  the  action,  but  in  the  words 
that  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  grand  and  beautiful 
tragedies  are  found.  And  is  the  beauty  and  is  the 
grandeur  found  only  in  the  words  that  explain  and 
accompany  the  action  ?  On  the  contrary,  only 
the  words  that  seem  inutile  count  in  a  work.  In 
them  is  the  soul  of  the  work." 

You  perceive  that  Maurice  Maeterlinck,  in  spite 
of  generalizations,  is  speaking  of  himself  and  his 
own  method.  You  have  crossed  the  moonlit  boule- 
vard ;  you  take  a  table  inside  the  Cafe  de  l'Hor- 
loge ;  you  drink  bock  and  stare  out  at  the  fountain, 
tossing  up  a  dust  of  chrysoprase  into  the  blue 
night. 

"  The  soul  of  a  play  is  in  its  useless  dialogue," 
you  repeat. 

And  Maurice  Maeterlinck  goes  further,  and  says  : 
"  A  drama  approaches  beauty  and  truth  in  thei 
measure  in  which  the  words  that  explain  the  action 
have  been  eliminated  and  have  been  replaced  by 
words  that  do  not  explain.  It  is  not  what  Solness 
says ;  it  is  not  what  Hilda  says :  it  is  what  they  do 
not  say  that  reveals  the  '  sorcery  '  in  them.  There 
is  a  new  movement  in  the  drama.     All  but  the  blind 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  35 

can  see  it.  The  soul  awakes  —  as  it  woke  in  Sol- 
ness,  the  Contractor.  We  are  beginning  to  compre- 
hend that  over  the  vulgar,  material  life  there  is  a 
higher  life,  the  essence  of  which  we  cannot  reach, 
but  which  is  revealed  to  us  by  incontestable  mani- 
festations. A  time  will  come  —  and  it  is  at  hand  — 
when  our  souls  shall  perceive  themselves  without 
the  mediation  of  our  senses." 

Maurice  Maeterlinck  stares  unwinking  at  the 
fountain, —  white  dust  of  chrysoprase  streaming  up 
in  the  blue  night ;  and  he  is  Novalis  and  Plato,  and 
he  is  Swedenborg,  and  he  is  Plotinus  and  Ruys- 
broeck,  and  he  is  Porphyry,  and  he  is  St.  Denys  the 
Areopagyte,  and  the  neo-Platonists  of  Alexandria. 
Softly  he  speaks,  and  the  voice  is  the  voice  of  an 
efficacious  and  opportune  mystic ;  and  he  says, 
"  The  soul  is  like  a  sleeper,  locked  in  dreams,  who 
strives  to  move  arm  or  eyelid ;  but  the  soul  shall 
wake." 

"  Garcon,  deux  demis,"  you  say. 

"  Of  your  own  plays  "  — 

"  Their  importance  has  been  exaggerated,"  Mau- 
rice Maeterlinck  says.  "  I  am  experimenting  :  I  do 
not  know  when  I  shall  find  my  way.  I  am  not 
satisfied  with  the  *  Princesse  Maleine,'  or  with  c  L'ln- 
truse,'  or  the  '  Aveugles.'  *  Tintagiles  '  ?  Yes,  that 
answered  my  thought.  But  I  do  not  care  for  my 
plays  after  they  are  written.  I  love  them  best  when 
they  are  in  my  mind.     The   conception  is   a  pure 


36  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

delight.  The  execution  is  a  torment.  And,  then, 
it  is  so  difficult  to  find  the  precise  expression,  the 
word  adequate  to  the  thought.  Always  it  is  a  little 
to  this  side  or  to  that.     Ah  !  it  is  not  an  easy  art." 


Loukios  in  Lucian  was  changed  into  an  ass,  but 
regained  his  humanity  by  eating  roses.  It  is  a 
pretty  fable.  It  is  the  fable  of  modern  literature, 
of  modern  poetry,  of  the  modern  poetical  drama. 
One  by  one  the  poets  who  bore  the  pack-saddle  of 
realism  and  nibbled  the  thistles  of  naturalism  have 
eaten  of  the  ideal  roses,  and  lost  gray  hide  and  pen- 
dulous ears.  The  new  art  is  a  protest  against  Zola 
and  against  Rodin  and  against  Claude  Monet.  It 
is  the  art  of  those  who  have  eaten  of  roses  :  it  is  the 
art  of  Maeterlinck. 

We  have  eaten  of  roses,  and  over  us  the  night 
is  mysterious.  Strange  whispers  come  down  to  us 
from  the  stars.  Patiently  we  mount  the  hill  of 
Calvary.  We  beat  against  the  iron  doors :  it  is 
Sister  Ygraine  who  beats  at  the  iron  door,  and  it  is 
humanity.  Of  old,  life  was  plain  :  men  knew  all 
that  was  necessary;  they  lived  as  men  on  a  journey, 
who  know  at  what  inn  they  shall  lie  down  at  night. 
But  we, —  we  do  not  know. 

See,  then  — 

Somewhere  in  stormy  seas  there  is  an  island,  and 
on  the  island   there  is  a  castle ;    and   in  the  castle 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  37 

there  is  a  great  hall,  lit  with  a  little  lamp  ;  and  in  the 
faint  light  of  the  lamp  there  are  people  who  wait. 
For  what  do  they  wait  ?  They  do  not  know.  They 
wait  for  the  lamp  to  go  out ;  they  wait  for  a  knock 
at  the  door, —  fear  they  await,  and  death.  They 
speak, —  ay,  they  speak  little  futile  words  that 
trouble  the  silence  for  a  little  while.  Then  they 
listen  again,  leaving  the  words  unfinished,  the  gest- 
ures unresolved ;  waiting.  They  listen.  They 
wait.  It  may  be  she  will  not  come  ?  Oh,  she  will 
come.  Always  she  comes.  It  is  late  :  she  may  not 
come  until  to-morrow.  And  the  people  gathered  in 
the  great  hall  under  the  little  lamp  smile  sadly, 
and  try  to  hope.     Some  one  knocks  — 


The  rain  has  begun  to  fall  again  on  Brussels. 
The  moon  is  hid.  Maurice  Maeterlinck  wraps  him- 
self in  his  mackintosh,  and  says,  "  Good-night,"  — 
calmly,  impersonally,  as  one  gives  the  sele  of  the 
night  to  a  passing  stranger.  He  is  thinking  of  his 
soul.  You  watch  his  tall  figure  until  a  tram-car 
shuts  it  from  your  view.  Then  you  say,  "  Garcon, 
un  bock !  " 


"  Create,  artist !  "  said  Goethe  :  "  do  not  perorate." 
I  know  it  is  good  of  Maurice  Maeterlinck  to  give 
us  his  practical  thoughts  on"  Wisdom  and  Destiny"; 


38  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

but  how  much  richer  we  had  been,  had  he  written 
another  "  Interieur,"  another  "  Maleine"  !  "  Sagesse 
et  Destinee,"  to  be  sure ;  but  Maeterlinck  is  still 
young,  and  a  book  of  this  sort  should  be  left  as  a 
last  will  and  testament  to  humanity,  as  Pascal  did  — 
or  did  not — leave  his  "  Thoughts."  That  beauti- 
ful book,  "  The  Treasure  of  the  Humble,"  was 
the  record  of  Maeterlinck's  mental  life  a  few  years 
ago.      But  something  has  happened. 

"  Leo  est  in  via,"  said  Solomon. 

He  met  Nietzsche  in  the  way, —  this  monstrous 
Nietzsche,  who  brawls  morally,  brawls  as  a  moral 
lion  in  the  preserves  of  the  daughters  of  the  desert. 
Strange  meeting  of  the  Humble  One  and  the  Indi- 
vidualist,—  as  of  the  marriage  of  Sir  Willoughby 
Patterne  and  the  patient  Grizel. 

They  met  in  a  green  and  mystic  jungle,  Nietzsche 
and  Maeterlinck,  and  the  noise  of  their  moral 
brawling  went  abroad  ;  and  it  is  this  book, —  Mae- 
terlinck's book  of  "  Wisdom  and  Destiny." 

Maeterlinck  has  a  marvellous  appreciation  of  the 
beauty  of  humble  and  quotidian  life.  In  one  of  his 
plays,  in  which  troubled,  little  souls  face  the  mystery 
of  life,  he  says,  "  Even  unhappiness  is  better  than 
sleep."  And  in  those  six  words  is  the  root  of  his 
philosophy,  and  the  flower.  In  another  place  he 
has  said  that,  as  we  ourselves  grow  better,  we  meet 
better  men, —  a  fine  truth  !  —  and  that  a  being  who 
is  good  irresistibly  attracts  events  as  good  as  him- 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  39 

self,  and  that  in  a  beautiful  soul  the  saddest  mis- 
chance turns  into  beauty.  It  is  a  serene  and  not 
unactive  philosophy  of  life.  For  this  poet  Wisdom 
is  not  a  marble  goddess  :  she  follows  us  even  in  our 
sins  and  errors.  And  for  the  wise  man  Destiny  is 
not  oppressive  chance, —  the  tumbling  of  unlucky 
dice, —  but  is  the  development  due  to  experience  of 
fortune  good  or  ill.  It  is  a  simple  theory,  if  once 
you  grasp  it,  and  is  withal  practical  and  opportune : 

Wisdom  does  not  consist  in  having  no  passions,  but  in  learn- 
ing to  purify  those  one  has. 

And  then  listen  to  this, —  the  voice  is  that  of  the 
Belgian,  but  the  hands  are  those  of  Marcus  Aure- 
lius :  — 

To  be  wise  is,  above  all,  to  learn  to  be  happy,  and  to  learn 
at  the  same  time  to  attach  less  and  less  importance  to  happiness  en 
soi. 

This  is  opportune  morality.  Like  Renan's  God, 
it  is  created  from  day  to  day.  It  is  absolutely  in- 
dividual because  it  depends  upon  no  religious  or 
philosophical  formula.  Be  good,  and  you  will  be 
happy  ?  Quite  so  ;  but  it  is  not  that  simple  ques- 
tion that  three  persons  so  cerebral  as  you  and 
Maeterlinck  and  I  have  got  together  to  discuss  at 
present. 

I  take  from  Maeterlinck's  new  book,  then,  the 
two  leading  theories, —  the  poet's  theory  of  science 


4o  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

and  his  theory  of  love.  A  poet's  discussion  of 
science  is  interesting  and  paradoxal.  I  once  knew 
an  elegiac  shepherd  who  had  been  raped  from  his 
windy  hills  and  set  to  sweep  the  gutters  of  Padua : 
he  swept  them  better  than  any  scavenger  of  them 
all.  And  Maeterlinck  has  put  into  words  a 
thought  that  has  haunted  many  a  man  and  has  never 
been  so  well  expressed.  Science  is  tumbling  down 
the  old  structures  of  morality,  justice,  happiness. 
It  is  knocking  out  the  underpinnings  of  the  moral 
world.  That  we  all  know.  It  has  dug  away  a 
little  here  and  a  little  there.  In  spite  of  fanciful 
Drummonds,  it  has  dealt  destructive  blows  to  the 
present  theory  of  religion.  But  everything  is  not 
yet  toppled  over.  Science  is  still  swinging  the 
pick-axe,  and  a  great  many  of  the  foundation  stones 
are  still  untouched. 

In  these  circumstances  how  should  one  live? 

As  of  old,  says  Maeterlinck,  as  if  the  house  were 
not  falling. 

Let  me  give  you  his  thought :  No  matter  what 
happens,  the  time  given  up  to  the  study  of  one's  self 
will  not  be  lost.  No  matter  in  what  way  we  may 
have  to  look  upon  the  world  of  which  we  are  part, 
there  will  always  be  more  sentiments,  passions, 
secrets,  in  the  human  soul  than  there  are  mysteries 
unveiled  by  science.  Science  maps  the  heavens ; 
but  there  are  undiscovered  stars  in  the  soul  of  man, 
for  which  science  has  no  telescope.     And,  if  in  time 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  41 

it  be  shown  that  all  our  hopes  are  vain,  their  very 
entertainment  will  have  been  an  education.  In 
other  words,  Maeterlinck  believes  in  collaborating 
with  Science,  no  matter  what  ultimate  solution  it 
may  have  to  offer.  And  his  hope  in  science  is  not 
purely  rationalistic : 

To  be  wise  is  not  to  adore  reason,  nor  is  it  to  have  accus- 
tomed reason  to  triumph  over  the  lower  instincts.  Reason  opens 
the  door  to  wisdom. 

True  wisdom  knows  many  things  that  reason 
does  not  approve  or  accept. 

The  first  of  these  is  love. 

Maeterlinck's  view  of  love  is  not  that  of  the 
chilled  scientist  or  of  the  simple  Tolstoi.  The 
scientist  says  grimly  that  love  is  an  invention  of  the 
poets.  (At  all  events,  a  beautiful  invention, —  one 
would  give  steam  and  electrical  machinery  and  even 
self-playing-pianos-for-music-critics  for  it !)  Tol- 
stoi's love  is  a  sort  of  systematic  sacrifice  of  one's 
self  to  some  one  else.  There  is  a  certain  moral 
nonchalance  in  this  theory  of  love.  It's  an.  almost 
cowardly  way  of  neglecting  one's  Nietzschean  duty 
to  one's  self.  Simply  because  I  love  some  glorious 
woman  —  a  creature  with  secular  eyes  and  hair  splen- 
didly red  —  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  love  my- 
self, even  though  I  be  a  negligible,  bearded  person. 
My  duty  is  to  myself.  If  my  love  does  not  make 
me    happy,    I    owe    it    nothing.       The    inflexible 


42  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Spaniard  who  threw  the  women  he  loved  out  of  the 
window  because  he  felt  they  were  not  good  for  his 
soul  was  quite  right.  One's  duty  to  one's  self  is 
more  important  than  all  the  beneficent  Tolsto*i*an 
sacrifice.  It  may  be  good  now  and  then  to  forgive 
one's  enemies,  but  only  the  weak  man  sacrifices 
himself  to  this  conception  of  love.  The  duty  of 
taking  vengeance  on  an  enemy  has  also  its  claims 
to  be  heard.  There  are  moral  Santiagos.  One's 
moral  force  may  be  more  vitally  hurt  by  over- 
indulgence in  abnegation,  resignation,  and  sacrifice 
than  by  occasional  vices  and  casual  crimes. 

Will  you  hear  the  new  gospel  ? 

It  was  born  in  the  jungle,  where  Nietzsche 
brawled  morally  and  the  pale  Belgian  pulled  up  his 
soul  by  the  roots,  that  he  might  see  how  it  was 
growing ;  and  it  is  — 

Better  than  loving  thy  neighbor  as  thyself  it  is 
to  love  him  in  thyself. 

This  is  a  book  of  beautiful  thoughts, —  a  poet's 
philosophy.  And  what  a  poet !  You  may  see  him 
going  about  Ghent  or  Brussels,  a  plump  little 
attorney,  with  realistic  trousers.  Ah,  well !  not  the 
white  vesture  and  the  shaven  beard  make  the  ser- 
vant of  I  sis. 


Emile   Verhaeren 


No  matter  how  closely  one  may  have  questioned 
Verhaeren's  genius,  it  is  difficult  to  give  the  English 
reader  any  exact  idea  of  his  work.  The  man  is  so 
complex !  To-day  he  is  the  greatest  of  French 
poets.  Yet  his  genius  is  essentially  Flemish. 
Across  all  his  verse  you  see  the  gray  landscapes  of 
the  north, —  the  yellow  Scheldt,  the  sails  and  ships 
and  dikes ;  over  the  sombre  meadows  you  see  the 
windmills  flapping  like  evil,  monstrous  birds ;  you 
see  the  rain  dropping  from  low  clouds  and  the  sea- 
fog  coiling  landward.  Though  he  writes  in  French, 
though  he  is  the  greatest  of  living  French  poets, 
Verhaeren  is  of  the  north:  only  the  voice  is  that 
of  Esau. 

He  was  born  at  Saint-Armand,  near  Antwerp,  in 
1855.  He  studied  at  the  College  Sainte-Barbe,  at 
Ghent,  and  afterward  entered  the  university  at 
Louvain.  It  is  an  old  town,  Louvain,  monkish 
and  gray.  Its  university  is  darkly  clerical.  It  was 
thence,  you  may  remember,  Father  Damien  went  to 
die  among  the  unsaved  lepers.  Once  I  talked  with 
one  of  the  professors.  He  was  a  gelid  philologian, 
but  he  thawed  as  we  sat  over  our  bock  in  the  Cafe 
Rubens.     I  asked  him  about  Verhaeren. 

"He  was  here  from    1877   to    1881,"  my   friend 


44  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

said  ;  "  and  even  then  he  was  a  poet.  He  was  a  bit 
of  a  revolutionnaire  as  well.  He  and  another  stu- 
dent, Van  Dyck  " — 

"The  tenor?" 

"Even  he.  These  two  founded  a  journal  called 
The  Week.  It  attacked  everything, —  Church  and 
State,  poetry  and  philology,  the  past  and  the  future. 
We  had  to  suppress  it." 

Verhaeren  went  to  Brussels  to  study  law ;  but 
(like  Van  Dyck)  he  soon  wearied  of  it,  and  gave 
himself  up  to  literature.  His  first  volume  of  verse, 
"  Les  Flamandes,"  appeared  in  1883.  To-day  he 
has  published  thirteen  volumes  of  poetry  and  two 
books  of  criticism.  This,  as  you  see,  is  no  slight 
prophylactic  against  oblivion.  He  has  known  ill- 
health.  The  marks  of  it  are  cut  deep  in  his  strong, 
rugged  face.  Withal,  at  forty-three,  he  has  kept 
much  of  the  ardor  and  frankness  of  youth.  He  is 
modest  and  gentle.  He  will  chat  with  you  of  this 
and  that,  of  poetry  and  socialism,  of  other  men's 
work.     Of  himself  he  will  say  nothing. 

"  Why  should  I  talk  of  myself?  "  he  asked  :  "  the 
best  of  me — and  it  may  be  the  worst  —  is  in  my 
books." 

In  Verhaeren's  early  work  there  was  an  intima- 
tion of  Victor  Hugo,  a  hint  of  red  romance,  a  touch 
of  the  hidalgo.  In  "  Les  Debacles,"  even,  you  find 
the  stress  and   color,  the  purple  and   passion,  of 


Emile  Vcrhaeren 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  45 

Goya  and  Zurbaran ;  and,  indeed,  there  is  Iberian 
blood  in  his  veins.  But  little  by  little  he  got  closer 
to  life,  closer  to  the  soil,  closer  to  the  men  of  his 
race.  In  the  splendid  phrase  of  Ezekiel,  he  hunted 
the  souls  of  his  people.  He  has  become  a  realist, 
—  like  Walt  Whitman  in  his  sincerity,  like  Rud- 
yard  Kipling  in  his  vehemence. 

In  "  Les  Flamandes "  he  went  to  the  people. 
He  saw  their  life,  and  said  it.  It  was  a  life  not 
without  vulgarity,  it  may  be  ;  but  it  was  the  vulgar- 
ity of  the  men  of  the  soil,  a  vulgarity  loyal,  sane, 
healthy,  and  tender.  The  robust  figures  live,  as 
they  labor  in  the  fields  or  riot  in  the  kermesses. 
These  are  pictures  that  Jordaens  might  have 
painted,  that  Teniers  did  paint.  There  is  no 
poetical  artifice.  You  feel  the  authenticity  of  it  all : 
the  swans  sailing  the  canals,  the  gold  of  evening  and 
the  straw  of  the  farm-yard,  tulips  and  pigs  and 
peasants, —  all  are  real. 

Then  came  "The  Monks."  This  was  in  1886. 
At  Forges,  in  the  "  black  country "  of  Belgium, 
there  is  a  monastery  of  Trappist  monks,  maintained 
by  the  Prince  de  Chimay.  Verhaeren  dwelt  there 
for  a  time.  A  very  beautiful  book  is  the  result.  I 
have  called  it  beautiful,  and  that  is  the  one  word  to 
describe  it.  "  Les  Flamandes,"  you  might  have 
imagined,  was  forged  in  the  reek  of  a  smithy,  amid 
flame  and  flying  sparks  and  the  clamor  of  iron 
beaten  on  the  anvil :  "  Les   Moines,"  on  the  other 


46  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

hand,  is  formally  beautiful,  clear,  strong,  and,  even 
in  its  strength,  calm  and  equable.  To  pass  from 
one  book  to  the  other  is  like  going  out  of  a  storm  v 
night  into  the  gray  peace  of  the  cloister. 

In  these  dumb  monks  he  saw  a  marvellous  hero- 
ism. He  looked  upon  them  as  warriors,  fighting 
impiety,  fighting  the  world,  fighting  themselves,  for 
God:  — 

Abatteurs  d'heresie  a  larges  coups  de  croix, 
Geants  charges  d'orgueil  que  Rome  immortalise. 

Verhaeren  gave  five  years  to  the  composition  of 
his  trilogy, —  the  three  volumes,  "Les  Soirs,"  "Les 
Debacles,"  and  "  Les  Flambeaux  Noirs."  I  should 
call  these  poems  a  study  in  self-martyrdom,  that 
most  dolorous  flower  of  modern  civilization.  Here 
all  is  dark  and  sinister.  The  sky  is  iron,  and  the 
earth  is  shadow.  In  the  shadows  of  the  earth  there 
are  cries  and  oaths  and  hideous  red  hands  lifted ; 
murder  is  done,  and  foul  desires  slink  by  like 
wolves ;  and  the  mind  of  man  is  as  a  charnel-house. 
Then  there  is  a  hint  of  day, —  this  is  the  second 
part  of  the  trilogy, —  a  stormy,  tormented  dawn, — 
a  "  red  dawn  crucified  on  the  horizon."  And  the 
man  who  has  lost  his  faith  finds  hope :  — 

Hamlet  rirait  peut-etre,  helas  !  mais  Parsifal  ? 
O  Parsifal,  benin  et  clair,  comprendrait  certes. 

In  the  third  part,  day  has  come :  life  takes  on  its 
wonted  aspect.     There  is   sunshine   on    the   green 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  47 

fields  and  yellow  roads ;  the  sweet  air  is  made  glad- 
some by  the  sun  ;  and  the  man  stands,  haggard  as  a 
ghost  out  of  Dante's  hell,  seul  avec  son  ame. 

This,  in  a  way,  is  the  scheme  of  the  trilogy ;  but 
I  can  give  you  no  idea  of  the  strength  and  fervor  of 
the  verse.  It  is  tumultuous  and  disordered,  bar- 
baric as  the  clangor  of  brazen  pans ;  and  yet  it  is 
Titanic  in  its  magnificence  ;  as  George  Moore  says 
that  Flaubert  said,  "  C'est  gigantesque." 

In  this  sketch  I  can  touch  only  upon  Verhaeren's 
more  important  works.  His  masterpiece  is  the  sec- 
ond trilogy  :  "  Les  Campagnes  Hallucinees,"  "  Les 
Villages  Illusoires,"  and  "  Les  Villes  Tentaculaires." 
These  three  are  the  most  important  poems  given  to 
the  world  since  "  Leaves  of  Grass." 

Often  the  poet's  voice  is  high  and  harsh,  for  he 
is  telling  the  tale  of  his  people's  misery  ;  but  in  the 
main  the  verse  is  distinguished  for  sober  magnifi- 
cence and  grim  power. 

Until  Kipling  wrote  "  McAndrew's  Hymn," 
poetry  disdained  the  engine-room  of  the  sea-going 
tramp.  Verhaeren's  subject  has  hitherto  belonged 
to  the  sociologist.  His  heroic  trilogy  is  built  on 
the  disquieting  fact  that  the  country  is  being  de- 
serted, while  the  cities  are  growing  monstrously. 
Unquestionably,  this  is  the  most  important  social 
event  of  the  age.  Doubtless  it  is  a  natural  move- 
ment, necessary  and  inevitable,  as  the  change  from 
the  old  nomadic  life  to  that  of  camps  and  settle- 


48  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

merits.  To  the  philosopher  it  is  a  reasonable  phe- 
nomenon, marking  the  beginning  of  a  new  civiliza- 
tion :  to  the  poet  it  is  an  epic  and  a  tragedy.  The 
poet  sees  the  naked,  black,  abandoned  fields ;  the 
deserted  homes,  doorless  and  windowless ;  and 
along  the  highways  lean,  hopeless,  interminable  car- 
avans journeying  to  the  crowded  cities.  He  walks 
abroad  in  his  deserted  country.  The  sea  is  stealing 
back  the  disregarded  fields.  The  tattered  wind- 
mills sprawl  like  monstrous  spiders.  The  stagnant 
canals  are  green  with  poison.  No  cattle  come  there 
to  drink.  The  very  flowers  are  dead.  Birds  of 
prey  fly  shrieking  overhead.  Mankind  has  fled  to 
the  apocalyptic  cities  of  refuge.  Huge  and  grim, 
they  lie  along  the  horizon,  under  flags  of  smoke 
and  carbon  flame. 

Here  and  there,  however,  a  few  villages  have  sur- 
vived. Are  they  real  or  things  of  fantasy,  these 
"Villages  Illusoires  "  ?  In  the  rotting  houses  the 
old  laborers  rot :  life  drifts  down  to  hideous  idiocy. 

But  in  the  cities  ?  In  the  "  Villes  Tentaculaires  "  ? 
Life  riots  there  among  the  swollen  shops  and  bazaars 
and  palaces  and  temples.  And  here  the  voice  of 
the  Belgian  poet  is  as  the  voice  of  Ezekiel  prophe- 
sying the  destruction  of  Tyre  and  Sidon  and  the 
city  of  Gog. 

Verhaeren  has  rhythm. 

You  remember  the  prelude  of  "  Siegfried,"  — 
this  insistence  and  iteration  from  the  forge  of  Nibel- 
heim  ?     It  is  in   Verhaeren's  verse.     Yes,   he  has 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  49 

rhythm,  virile  as  Walt  Whitman,  lyric  as  Kipling, 
varied  as  Hugo.  He  has  color, —  of  blood  and 
gold  and  night,  of  metal  and  flame.  His  verse  has 
rare  splendor.  No  poet,  I  think,  has  in  such  a 
degree  the  Rembrandt  gift  of  light  and  shade.  He 
knows  how  to  cut  an  absolute  black  with  a  virginal 
white.  But  I  have  no  desire  to  discuss  the  technical 
side  of  his  verse  at  this  moment.  My  only  purpose 
is  to  give  you  a  general  idea  of  his  complex  genius. 
At  times  he  is  purple,  violent,  hidalgic ;  his  voice 
is  brocade.  At  other  times,  and  especially  in  his 
later  poems,  his  style  is  direct,  brief,  strict,  hard ; 
his  metaphors  are  realistic,  popular,  vulgar,  common 
and  yet  unforeseen,  so  modern  they  are.  He  does 
not  believe  that  it  is  the  duty  of  a  poet  to  close  his 
eyes  to  the  common  and  the  modern  —  to  dock  and 
canal,  bridge  and  tunnel,  steam-engine  and  trolley. 
He  has  the  faculty  of  disengaging  the  poetical  sig- 
nificance of  the  commonplace  object  and  fact. 

It  is  the  faculty  that  has  distinguished  every  great 
poet  from  Homer  to  Whitman. 

In  France  there  are  scores  of  busy,  little  men, 
tinkering  verses  and  soldering  rhymes ;  but  the 
great  French  poet  of  this  day  is  Emile  Verhaeren  — 
and  he  is  a  Fleming. 

I  do  not  praise  all  he  has  written  (not  all  of 
Wagner's  music  is  admirable  and  Shakspere  may 
have  written  "Titus  Andronicus,"  after  all),  but 
even  of  his  early,  tempestuous  work  there  is  little 
that  I  would  willingly  let  die. 


Georges   Eekhoud 


Eastward  from  Antwerp  stretches  the  Campine,  a 
land  of  sandy  dunes  and  cold  mists,  inhabited  by 
a  primal,  half-savage  race  of  peasants.  It  is  Georges 
Eekhoud's  country.  He  has  made  it  his  own  —  as 
Hardy  took  Wessex  —  by  right  of  literary  conquest. 
At  present  he  lives  in  Brussels,  brightest  and  most 
coquettish  of  modern  capitals ;  but  in  a  truer  sense 
his  home  is  there  by  the  gray  sea,  under  the  cold 
mists.  His  youth  was  passed  in  Switzerland.  He 
spent  many  years  there  among  the  shining  peaks 
and  the  green  plains  of  the  Aar ;  it  was  exile. 
Sometimes  there  is  no  sadness  in  exile.  Ovid  drank 
mare's  milk  under  the  leather  tents  of  the  Sarma- 
tians  and  sang  like  a  nightingale.  But  Georges 
Eekhoud  knew  le  mal  du  pays  from  which  Sacher 
Masoch  suffered.  Over  his  life  and  dreams  there 
brooded  always  the  dark  and  savage  Campine. 
And  when  he  came  to  write,  his  subjects  were  taken 
from  this  old  corner  of  old  Flanders. 

"  Semi-paganus  sum,"  said  Persius ;  it  is  the 
legend  I  have  written  under  the  picture  of  Georges 
Eekhoud  that  hangs  over  my  writing-table.  His  is 
the  stormiest  soul  in  modern  literature.  The  little 
revolts  of  Adolphe  Rette,  the  poetical  indignation 
of  Emile  Verhaeren,  are  but  mint  and  cumin  and 

5° 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  51 

anise  to  the  strenuous  and  violent  rebellion  of  this 
outlaw  of  letters. 

I  have  called  him  an  outlaw,  but  the  word  needs 
a  gloss.  He  is  a  bandit,  like  Jose  Maria,  the  chiv- 
alrous Castilian,  whom  high  dames  loved.  The 
bandit — he  alone  preserves  the  precious  traditions 
of  the  customs,  passions  and  original  traits  of  his 
race.  He  is  the  last  representative  of  the  life  that 
was  once  the  common  propertv  of  all  his  country- 
men. The  European  palette  is  uniform  and  gray. 
You  cannot  distinguish  the  Swedish  diplomat  from 
the  Roumanian  charge  d 'affaires  —  vonder  as  they 
sit  over  their  cigars  —  but  who  would  ever  mistake 
Fra  Diavolo  for  a  Palicare  of  Epirus  ?  Georges 
Eekhoud  is  the  loyal  and  audacious  son  of  his  own 
stormy  lowlands.  He  is  sib  to  the  hardy  mariners 
and  those  fierce  peasants  who,  in  their  lusty  games 
and  savage  love-making,  preserve  some  of  the  old 
barbaric  worship  of  the  gods  of  the  sea  and  the 
land.  He  is  the  last  representative  of  the  pagan 
lovers.  To  be  sure  he  has  made  this  country  of  his 
merely*  his  point e  du  depart ;  through  the  mouths  of 
his  peasants  he  has  proclaimed  the  solidarity  of 
mankind;  he  has  measured  the  present  organiza- 
tion of  society  —  what  is  called  civilization  —  with 
the  free  life  of  his  chosen  country  and  —  but  he  has 
left  the  reader  to  draw  his  own  conclusions.  Thev 
are  poor,  these  peasants ;  they  are  humiliated  and 
driven  —  for  even  into  their  poor  villages  the  mili- 


52  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

tary  law  reaches ;  but  they  know  the  great  passions 

—  to  know  the  great  passions,  my  civilized  brother, 
think  what  it  is  ! 

The  American  reader  can  find  no  better  introduc- 
tion to  Georges  Eekhoud's  books  than  a  little  story 
by  Stanley  Waterloo, — "  A  Tragedy  of  the  Forest." 
The  hero  of  Mr.  Waterloo  is  a  man  who  has  known 
the  soul  of  the  gray  wolf,  and  has  hunted  the  fleeting 
deer  in  the  pines.      Between  these  two  great  writers 

—  the  Belgian  and  the  American  —  there  is  the  com- 
mon  link  of  Berserker  blood.  They  have  not  lost 
communion  —  as  most  of  us,  tamed  and  saddened 
by  civilization,  have  —  with  the  primal  instincts. 
They  can  brood  with  the  heron  and  hunt  with  the 
wolf.  By  a  sort  of  victorious  anachronism  they  can 
live  the  old  life  of  wood  and  cave. 

There  is  in  Georges  Eekhoud's  work  a  little  of 
Nietzsche ;  he,  too,  might  have  said :  "  For  the 
superfluous  the  State  was  invented."  In  the  false, 
excited  life  of  the  cities  he  sees  only  that  "  slow 
suicide  called  life " ;  he  has  Nietzsche's  splendid 
contempt  for  the  artificialities  of  civilization  and  all 
the  jargon  of  official  and  timid  virtue.  And  if  one 
is  to  get  at  Georges  Eekhoud  in  this  way,  it  should 
be  added,  that  he  is  not  without  a  touch  of  Mere- 
dithian  reverence  for  the  earth  itself —  for  the  renew- 
ing soil  and  obliterating  sea,  these  eternal  protests 
against  civilization. 

An  angry  and   turbulent   soul  —  in  fiction  Eek- 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  53 

houd  stands  for  that  philosophical  revolt  against  the 
smug  and  equalitarian  organization  of  life,  which  in 
Nietzsche  found  its  prophet  and  in  Verhaeren  its 
poet. 

In  "  Kees  Doorik,"  in  the  first  and  second  series 
of  the  "  Kermesses,"  in  the  "  Milices  de  Saint- 
Francois,"  you  will  find  this  side  of  Eekhoud's 
thought  developed  with  rare  power.  Only  one 
word  can  describe  them  ;  they  are  monstrous  books 
—  monstrous  in  power.  Hoarse  and  frenetic  laugh- 
ter echoes  through  them.  These  peasants,  as  Ver- 
haeren finely  said,  "tower,  angular  and  savage,  as 
old  statues  of  wood."  And  the  light  the  author 
throws  upon  them  is  like  that  of  torches,  blown  and 
red.  He  admits  their  prejudices.  He  glorifies 
their  ignorance.  He  shares  their  sullen  hatred  of 
the  city.  He  emphasizes,  if  he  does  not  aggravate, 
the  savagery  of  their  passions.  I  should  do  but 
scant  justice  to  my  author  were  I  to  leave  with  you 
the  thought  that  he  is  only  a  rebel,  waving  a  torch 
and  scattering  fire-brands.  Unquestionably,  the 
first  impression  you  gain  from  reading  these  novels 
is  one  of  revolt, —  there  are  cries  of  violence,  love 
snarls  in  sylvan  moods,  hate  is  swift  and  summary. 
But  behind  this,  above  it  and  round  it,  like  an  at- 
mosphere, there  is  a  vague  element  of  tenderness 
and  faith,  which  is  felt  rather  than  seen.  His  peas- 
ants have  the  frank,  notable  vices  of  the  bandit ; 
but  they  are  sincere  and  valiant,  true  to  each  other ; 


54  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

their  love  is  sweet  and  naive ;  they  are  grave  and 
honorable  —  as  wolves  that  hunt  in  pack.  They  are 
rich  in  the  pagan  qualities  of  paternal  and  filial  love. 
"  Kees  Doorik  "  and  "  Kermesses  "  (especially  the 
first  series)  represent  Georges  Eekhoud's  first  period. 
They  are  his  "  Lara "  and  his  "  Giaour."  The 
"  Nouvelle  Carthage  "  was  a  book  of  transition.  In 
my  sketch  of  Verhaeren  I  have  pointed  out  the  im- 
portance which  the  question  of  the  city  has  assumed 
in  old-world  literature.  You  see  it  darkly  across 
Zola's  patiently  dull  pages.  In  Verhaeren's  heroic 
trilogy  it  takes  on  epic  proportions.  Nowhere, 
however,  has  the  subject  been  treated  with  greater 
power  than  in  the  "  Nouvelle  Carthage."  It  is  a 
wonderful  synthesis  of  the  grandeur  and  shame  of 
the  city  —  with  its  ports  and  shops  and  banks  and 
theatres  —  "  cities  where  the  cowardly  and  indiffer- 
ent rich  torture  implacably  the  souls  of  artists  and 
artisans."  The  same  thought  runs  through  the 
"  Nouvelles  Kermesses."  This  book  is  a  magnifi- 
cent paraphrase  of  Story's  hymn  to  the  conquered 
—  may  I  not  say  a  paraphrase  of  the  teachings  of 
that  first  Democrat  ?  There  is  a  class  of  men, 
made  up  of  those  who  struggle,  who  resist  —  and 
succumb ;  and  beneath  them  is  a  lower  class  of 
those  to  whom  even  the  struggle  is  an  impossi- 
bility—  the  classless,  life's  outcasts,  the  vagrom  men. 
These  are  the  eternal  victims  of  civilization ;  they 
who  cannot  rise.     With  a  sympathy,  that  is  in  the 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  55 

way  of  being  genius,  Georges  Eekhoud  has  captured 
the  secret  of  these  vagrom  men.  How  well  he 
knows  the  outcast  soul  you  may  see  in  "  Le  Cycle 
Patibulaire "  and  "  Mes  Communions" — his 
masterpieces. 

M.  Andre  Fontainas  has  described  a  visit  Eekhoud 
made  to  an  old  seigneurial  castle  in  the  most  deso- 
late region  of  his  Campine,  that 

Misty,  mid-region  of  Weir. 

It  was  a  ruined  old  castle  and  had  long  been  given 
over  to  the  vagrom  men.  And  for  these  las  d'aller, 
as  he  called  them,  Georges  Eekhoud  was  taken  with 
a  great  compassion ;  but  when  he  knew  them  better, 
compassion  became  sympathy  ;  and  he  said  : 

"  Yes,  most  of  them  are  indolent,  savage ;  they 
are  dazed  and  lost ;  their  eyes  are  humid  and  vision- 
ary ;  they  understand  nothing  of  life,  the  world,  the 
code,  morals ;  they  do  not  know  what  they  have  to 
do  on  this  earth ;  dragged  on  by  this  gaffe  or  that, 
the  feeble,  the  have-no-chance,  sheep  always  shorn, 
the  passive,  the  exploited,  the  dupes  who  have  re- 
mained candid  as  children ;  vitiated,  but  not  vicious 
—  the  eternal  soujfre-dou/eurs."  These  are  not  the 
chemineaux  of  Jean  Richepin.  They  do  not  know 
the  Dream.  They  are  the  great  protagonists  of 
civilization  —  they  whose  unhappy  destiny  it  is  to 
kill  the  chiefs  of  empire  —  they  with  Caserio's  heart 
and  the   hand   of  Luccheni.     Thev  haunt  the  city 


56  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

and  the  forest.  In  the  great  capitals  they  have 
their  own  sure  and  secret  domain.  They  live  with- 
out law.  They  die  on  the  barricades  or  in  the 
gutter. 

Georges  Eekhoud  went  down  among  these  va- 
grom  men  —  with  Walt  Whitman's  formidable  cour- 
age, he  lived  with  them  en  frere  et  en  egal.  He 
came  to  understand  their  pride,  their  passion,  their 
strange  tenderness,  at  once  defiant  and  ashamed. 
With  them  he  discerned  the  eternal  justice  that  lies 
behind  the  fashionable  laws  of  this  civilization  or 
that.  He  studied  the  vagrom  men  —  without  gloat- 
ing sentimentalism,  with  hardly  a  hint  of  that  restless 
and  sensitive  compassion,  which  Macaulay  thought 
characteristic  of  our  day.  Eekhoud  does  not  re- 
prove ;  he  does  not  weep ;  he  does  not  beat  his 
breast.  He  sees  things  and  says  them  —  that 
sublime  privilege  of  genius.  He  saw  that  human 
nature  is  above  and  beyond  all  artifices  of  law ;  and 
he  said  that  it  is  by  prohibitions,  by  moral  and  legal 
constraints  that  man  has  created  the  necessity  of 
crime,  but  that  he  alone  is  culpable  who  has  so 
humiliated  his  nature  that  he  can  submit  without  re- 
volt. Here  it  is,  he  reaches  the  point  whence  Zara- 
thustra  set  out. 

This  is  not  meat  for  little  people  or  for  fools. 

I  have  spoken  more  of  the  philosophical  contents 
of  Eekhoud's  work  than  of  its  form.  The  chief 
characteristic  of  his  style  is  its  vehemence  and  forth- 


'-v""*^ 


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I  7  %  : 


ft 


. 


m 


Sunday  morning  in  a  Polder  village  where  Eekhoud 
lived  for  many  vears 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  57 

Tightness  —  its  essentially  dramatic  qualities.  There 
is  a  very  fine  illustration  of  what  I  mean  in  "  Le 
Comte  de  la  Digue " —  Eekhoud's  latest  novel. 
The  development  of  the  young  Dykgrave's  charac- 
ter is  in  the  manner  of  the  old  English  dramatists,  of 
Marlowe  and  Webster,  perhaps,  rather  than  Shak- 
spere.  Life,  for  this  young  rebel,  sweeps  a  great 
circle,  through  pain  and  passion  lb  an  end  as  sad 
and  inevitable  as  that  of  "The  Atrides."  It  is  a 
psychological  drama.  Indeed,  I  would  say  that 
"  Le  Comte  de  la  Digue "  is  a  singularly  fine 
example  of  that  old  implex  drama  which  Aristotle 
defined  as  the  "  purgation  of  the  passions."  Like 
the  Greeks,  Eekhoud  has  seized  the  double  role  of 
pity  and  terror  in  human  life ;  and  the  end  of  the 
story  is  the  peace  which  comes  when  these  passions 
are  in  perfect  counterpoise.  Such  an  art  is  neither 
moral  nor  immoral.  Once  you  have  accepted  the 
psychological  scenario,  you  have  accepted  the 
denouement.  "  Le  Comte  de  la  Digue "  is  not  a 
book  for  bachelors  and  maids ;  it  is  a  book  only  for 
the  unusual  reader,  who  can  see,  across  the  stormy 
play  of  passions,  the  fixed  and  immobile  idea.  In 
modern  French  prose  I  know  of  no  pages  so  terrible 
as  those  which  describe  the  fete  of  the  women  of 
Smaragdis  —  a  fierce,  maenadic  riot,  to  which  the 
carousals  of  the  Lapithae  were  pallid  and  slight. 
Shrieking  Bacchantes  "  with  their  souls  of  wine  " — 
with  shameless,  secular  eyes  and  wind-blown  hair  — 


58  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

rage  through  the  gray  forest,  in  savage  and  atavistic 
moods,  the  true  daughters  of  those  blond  beasts, 
who  howled  to  Thor  and  Odin.  The  sombre 
splendor  of  Eekhoud's  style  —  its  warmth  and 
music  and  color  —  its  strenuousness  and  exaltation 
are  eminently  Elizabethan. 

I  have  in  mind  an  afternoon  in  Brussels ;  out  of 
doors  the  April  air,  warm  and  soft  with  unshed 
rain;  within  a  flutter  of  women,  and  men  lolling  — 
and  Eekhoud  erect,  impassioned,  reading  aloud  that 
wonderful  scene  in  the  forest,  from  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher's  "  Philaster,  or  Love  Lies  A'  Bleeding." 
And  in  a  way  it  is  typical,  for  Eekhoud  has  brought 
back  to  an  age,  weary  of  analysis  —  weary  of  pulling 
up  its  soul  to  see  how  the  roots  are  spreading  —  the 
old  Elizabethan  fervor  and  forthrightness.  His 
heroes  would  have  been  at  home  with  Sidney, 
Drake,  Surrey,  Marlowe,  Webster,  Shakspere. 
They  are  heroic  figures  and  he  drapes  them  —  this 
master  of  vital  prose  —  in  garments  splendid,  flash- 
ing, opulent. 

Terror  and  pity,  I  have  said  — 

On  the  whole,  I  believe  that  pity  is  the  leading 
motif  of  Georges  Eekhoud's  work.  Camille  Le- 
monnier  —  a  Belgian  writer  whom  I  should  like  to 
praise  in  a  flight  of  silver  phrases  —  speaks  of  Eek- 
houd as  Vami  des  taciturnes  —  "He  confesses  them, 
he  consoles  them,  he  draws  them  to  him  with  all  the 
magnetism  of  his  misericordial  heart.     These  mute 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  59 

souls  are  to  him  like  the  sick  who  know  not  why 
they  suffer,  nor  for  what  fault  they  are  punished. 
He  lies  by  them  on  their  beds  of  pain ;  he  bathes 
his  eyes  in  their  nostalgia ;  he  washes  their  sores 
and  gives  them  the  kiss  that  St.  Julian  l'Hospitalier 
laid  upon  the  mouth  of  the  leper."  And  this  is 
very  true ;  Eekhoud's  work  is  built  upon  the  motif 
of  infinite  pity.  His  bitterness,  his  revolts,  his 
stormy  and  sombre  splendors,  are  all  protests  against 
the  unhappiness  of  unhappy  men. 

Georges  Eekhoud  is  a  man  as  improbable  as 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  —  as  exceptional  as  Walt  Whit- 
man. He  is  of  this  age  and  he  is  ageless.  Better 
than  any  one  he  has  discerned  the  psychological 
tragedy  that  lies  behind  the  social  evils  of  our  inad- 
equate civilization ;  and  that  tragedy  he  has  written 
in  a  half-dozen  books  —  books  so  powerful  and 
personal,  that  I  cannot  believe  the  world  will  will- 
ingly let  them  die. 

Not  long  ago  at  a  dinner  given,  in  Brussels,  to 
Georges  Eekhoud,  Emile  Verhaeren  read  this 
poem  : 

Dans  cet  oeuvre  que  tous,  avec  toute  notre  ame, 

Au  long  des  jours  ingrats,  rayes  parfois  de  flamme, 

Impatients  d'eveil,  graves  de  souvenir, 

Nous  batissons  —  depuis  quinze  ans  —  vers  l'avenir, 

Ton  art  atoi,  ton  art  seditieux  de  force, 

Ton  art  rude  et  crispe  se  dresse  comme  un  torse, 

Non  pas  d'onyx  parfait,  non  pas  de  marbre  pur, 

Non  pas  correct  et  blanc  sur  fond  banal  d'azur, 


60  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Mais  de  seve  angoissee  et  de  chair  energique 

Ou  s'ouvre  —  entaille  au  clair — la  pourpre,  fleur  tragique. 

En  ce  torse  large  et  vivant,  tu  l'as  plante 

Ce  cceur,  le  tien,  ou  tout  amour  a  fermente  : 

La  passion  elle  est  vissee  en  toi ;  tu  l'aimes 

En  ces  cris  tortures  et  ses  gestes  supremes. 

Tu  choisis  tiens  parmi  les  coins  de  ton  pays, 

Les  bourgs  les  plus  lointains,  les  sols  les  plus  transis  ; 

Au  fond  des  yeux  de  ceux  que  repousse  le  monde, 

Tu  recueilles,  pieux,  1'afFre  la  plus  profonde. 

Le  plus  haut  de  nous  tous,  tu  l'es,  par  cette  foi 
Que  les  battus  et  les  chasses  ont  mise  en  toi ; 
Tes  vceux,  depuis  longtemps,  font  la  croisiere  humaine 
Par  a  travers  les  mers  des  pleurs  et  de  la  peine, 
N'ayant  crainte  jamais  que  les  vents  arrogants 
N'accrochent  a  ton  mat  l'aile  des  ouragans, 
Ni  que  s'egare  au  loin  ton  courage  erratique 
Parti  pour  un  grand  port  de  pitie  frenetique. 

Aussi,  chaque  fois  qu'un  de  tes  livres  s'en  vient 
Te  prouver  tel :  fievreux  de  Part,  fievreux  du  bien, 
Uniquement  mordu  par  ton  travail,  vorace 
D' emotion  extreme  et  rouge  ou  bout  ta  race, 
Loyal  a  tous  et  bon  et  de  zele  arFermi 
Quand  la  betise  autour  de  nos  bouquins  aboie, 
Te  magnifions-nous  avec  ferveur  et  joie 
Comme  maitre  ecrivain  et  comme  maitre  ami. 

Is  it  not  true  that  there  is  a  Belgian  renascence 
in  art  and  letters  —  think,  then  :  Maeterlinck,  Ver- 
haeren  and  Eekhoud,  this  trinity ;  Felicien  Rops, 
Peter  Benoit  and  Jan  Blockx ;  a  new  pleiad. 


Georges   Rodenbach 

A  gentle  poet  is  dead. 

Do  you  remember  Raffaelli's  portrait  of  Georges 
Rodenbach?  It  is  etched  with  rare  precision  and 
intelligence  and  gives  you,  better  than  words,  the 
air  with  which  this  poet  braved  life.  Tall  and  slim 
and  pale,  with  gold  hair  that  curled,  and  a  drooping 
mustache,  with  dreamy  eyes  and  delicate  hands, 
Rodenbach  was  a  romantic-looking  dandy — the 
sort  of  man  at  whom  women  look  regardfully.  A 
handsome  man,  accomplished  in  the  modish  inso- 
lence of  the  day  —  Parisian  to  the  finger-tips  —  he 
was  at  heart  as  dreamy  and  mystic  as  the  dead  city 
of  his  love.  Always  he  had  the  air  of  one  who  had 
come  out  of  the  North  —  that  North  of  misty 
winters  and  sombre  skies,  of  gray  seas  and  snowy 
lowlands.  He  was  born  in  Bruges.  His  youth 
was  passed  there,  amid  the  dead  canals  and  the 
fading  streets.  He  studied  in  a  priestly  college. 
At  twenty  he  went  to  Paris  —  stepping  at  once  from 
the  cloister  to  the  Quartier  Latin.  He  wrote  verses 
and  plays  and  tales.  Some  of  them  were  published. 
All  of  them  were  futile.  They  were  the  imitations, 
the  parodies  and  pompous  attempts  through  which 
every  young  man  passes  on  his  way  to  a  knowledge 
of  his  own  thought  and  his  own  style.     He  knew 

61 


62  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

the  writers  and  artists  of  the  day.  All  about  him 
Paris  glittered  and  tinkled  — 

Bruges  called  to  him. 

And  he  felt  that  he  was  an  exile  ;  inquiet  and  athirst 
for  solitude  and  silence,  for  the  cloisters  and  quays 
and  sleeping  waters,  for  the  anaemic  sun  of  the  North 
and  the  gray  dreams,  he  went  back  to  the  city  of  his 
birth  to  become  its  poet  and  elegist. 

Over  Bruges  stand  three  towers  —  Notre-Dame, 
Saint-Sauveur  and  the  Belfry  —  dark  and  austere  as 
monks.  Day  and  night  the  bells  ring  and  the 
music  falls  flakily  —  as  the  sunlight  slips  from  leaf 
to  leaf  of  the  gray  poplars  —  over  the  city.  And 
round  the  city  and  through  it,  like  the  silver  of  a 
spider's  web,  are  stretched  the  lean  canals.  The 
old  houses  with  the  old  roofs  and  the  old  windows 
look  down  on  the  lethargic  waters  of  the  canals. 
The  waters,  too,  are  old  and  still.  You  may  stand 
upon  them  and  stare  down  into  them  as  into  a  blue 
mirror.  The  trees  are  mirrored  there  and  the  old 
houses  with  the  old  windows.  In  the  depths  of  the 
waters  —  beneath  the  white  lilies  that  dream  on  the 
surface  —  you  can  see  a  shadowy  city,  which  is  at 
once  the  phantom  and  the  soul  of  Bruges.  See  — 
this  is  the  real  Bruges,  there  in  the  waters,  the 
ancient  city  with  monkish  towers  and  walls  eloquent 
of  mediaeval  war  —  and,  see,  here  sails  a  swan, 
serenely  beautiful,  and  the  vision  is  broken.  The 
most   indifferent  cheap-tripper   may   know    Bruges, 


r 


r\\ 


'^i.'J^H) 


V  ) 


'if 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  63 

the  upper  city  of  tramcars  and  new  quays,  but  only 
one  man  has  known  the  soul  of  Bruges —  Georges 
Rodenbach. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  he  remained  in  Bruges 
—  a  number  of  years  it  may  be  —  but  his  sojourn 
was  long  enough  to  teach  him  his  way  in  literature. 
In  later  days  I  used  to  see  him  in  Paris  —  at  the 
old  Theatre-Libre,  at  the  CEuvre,  at  the  opera  on 
Wagner  nights  —  a  gallant,  mocking,  ironic  figure 
of  a  man.  And  yet  this  dandy,  with  his  tall  gray 
hat,  his  white  waistcoat  and  pallid  scarf,  was  but  a 
simulacrum.  The  soul  of  Georges  Rodenbach  was 
in  Bruges. 

Rodenbach  was  influenced,  but  not  to  his  undoing, 
by  the  Goncourts ;  he  had  a  little  of  their  ambition 
to  make  a  paint-brush  of  his  pen.  His  work  is 
that  of  a  cerebral,  aristocratic  man.  His  style  is 
delicate,  subtle,  veiled.  For  every  author  whom 
one  loves  one  finds  sooner  or  later  a  concrete  sym- 
bol. Georges  Rodenbach  always  summons  for  me 
a  picture  of  a  white  Beguin  nun  passing  through 
some  dark  mediaeval  street  on  a  white  errand.  I 
said  he  was  the  poet  of  Bruges  —  he  is  the  poet 
of  windy  belfries,  of  incense  and  candles  and  dim 
altars,  the  poet  of  linen  veils  and  old  chambers  and 
old  mirrors,  wherein  troop  the  ghosts  of  dead  de- 
sires ;  the  poet  of  rain  and  silence,  of  white  and 
gray.  Have  you  read  "  La  Jeunesse  Blanche "  ? 
Or  that  best  of  all  his  books,  "  Regne  du  Silence  "  ? 


64 


FRENCH  PORTRAITS 


After  all,  there  is  nothing  quite  so  wonderful  as 
silence.  To  one  who  listens,  as  Rodenbach  did, 
silence  is  haunted  with  faint,  mystic  sounds,  echoes 
from  the  au-dela,  even  as  he  who  watches  may  see 
in  blackness  ripples  and  blushes  of  color.  This 
poet  heard  the  carillons  of  silence.  He  knew  the 
silence  of  the  dead  city.  He  sings  thereof  in  muted 
rhymes.  Here,  for  instance,  is  an  old,  old  chamber, 
with  faded  tapestries  and  dim  mirrors,  impregnated 
with  the  past :  — 

Rien  n'a  change  ;  les  glaces  seules 
Sont  tristes  d*  avoir  recueilli 
Le  visage  un  peu  plus  vieilli 
Des  melancholiques  aieules. 

And  since  the  book  is  before  me  let  me  quote  a 
few  of  those  verses  in  which  he  has  told  the  life  of 
the  bells :  — 

Les  chants  du  carillon,  tombant  du  beffroi  fier, 
S'effeuillaient  dans  le  vent  comme  des  fleurs  de  fer. 


Et  voici  que  soudain  les  cloches  agitees 
Ebranlent  le  beffroi  debout  dans  son  orgueil, 
Et  leurs  sons,  lourds  d'airain,  sur  la  ville  au  cercueil 
Descendent  lentement  comme  des  pelletees. 

That  first  couplet  has  haunted  me  for  years  :  — 


The  songs  of  the  bells  fall  from  the  haughty  towers, 
Go  fluttering  down  the  wind  like  iron  flowers. 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  65 

Georges  Rodenbach  is  one  of  those  poets  who 
take  their  pleasures  sadly.  He  hymns  the  gray 
things  of  life.  Perhaps  it  is  impossible  that  there 
should  not  be  a  certain  degree  of  monotony  in  his 
works.  It  is  all  perfect,  all  silver-gray,  all  melan- 
choly ;  and  it  is  all  Bruges.  One  is  half  tempted 
to  wish  that  he  would  desert  Bruges  for  a  while, 
were  it  only  for  a  cheap-tripper's  jaunt  to  Antwerp. 
And  yet  I  do  not  know.  In  the  dozen  books  he 
has  left,  Rodenbach  has  preserved  —  in  amber  of 
golden  prose  and  verse  —  this  fragment  of  old-world 
life  and  art.  He  has  done  one  thing  well.  He  has 
painted  only  one  picture  —  but  that  a  masterpiece. 
He  has  interpreted  the  soul  of  Bruges  —  this  city 
of  the  past  —  and  it  is  rather  uncritical  to  arraign 
him  for  not  having  capered  on  the  house-tops  of 
Paris.  Bruges  is  almost  the  last  of  the  cities  of  the 
Netherlands  which  have  withstood  the  onset  of  the 
Seven-headed  Beast  of  commerce.  On  its  sleepy 
canals  only  the  swans  sail.  And  Bruges  will  go  the 
way  of  all  the  other  cities  of  refuge  —  whither  you 
and  I  fled  from  the  rusty  noises  of  commerce.  Last 
spring  when  I  was  there  they  told  me  of  some  mon- 
strous scheme  for  making  it  a  manufacturing  town. 
Soon  all  its  immemorial  beauty  will  live  only  in  the 
books  of  Georges  Rodenbach.  Doubtless  the  his- 
torians have  rifled  the  old  archives.  Doubtless  they 
will  write  all  sorts  of  inutile  and  ponderous  histories. 
But  it  is  to  Rodenbach  alone  that  Bruges  has  told 


66  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

her  secret.  He  has  known  the  soul  of  the  old  city. 
And  that  you  may  know  it,  you  have  but  to  read 
the  "  Regne  du  Silence,"  the  "  Vies  Encloses," 
the  "  Vocation,"  the  "  Musee  de  Beguines,"  and 
"  Bruges-la-Morte." 

The  "  Carillonneur  "  is,  I  believe,  his  last  book. 
It  is  the  story  of  the  soul  of  a  woman  and  the  soul 
of  the  bells  in  the  belfries  at  Bruges. 

I  still  remember  the  curiosity  that  was  excited  a 
few  years  ago  —  in  1894,  I  think  —  when  it  was 
announced  that  a  play  by  Georges  Rodenbach  would 
be  exposed  at  the  Comedie-Francaise.  Rodenbach 
was  a  declared  enemy  of  all  the  dramatic  modes  of 
the  day.  The  corrosive  pessimism  of  Becque,  the 
brutal  observation  of  the  naturalists  and  Theatre- 
Librists  were  as  far  from  his  approbation  as  the 
mean  little  clowneries  of  Pailleron  or  the  rancid  jests 
of  Bisson  et  id  omnes.  Now  "  Le  Voile  "  was  not  a 
success.  Perhaps  it  was  not  a  play  at  all,  but  in 
any  case  it  was  poetry  —  fanciful,  sweet,  subtle,  and 
original.  Of  course  the  scene  was  in  Bruges  —  the 
costumes  were  those  of  Bruges  —  and  all  through 
the  play  the  bells  of  Bruges  rang,  faint  and  sacer- 
dotal. It  was  an  atmosphere,  an  environment  that 
Rodenbach  gave  us,  rather  than  a  play.  The  story 
was  simple  to  the  vanishing  point. 

Jean  has  lived  for  many  years  in  a  quiet  home 
with  his  old  aunt.  She  has  fallen  ill  and  a  Beguin 
nun  has  been  called  in  to  attend  her.     This  is  the 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  67 

situation  when  the  little  drama  begins.  Dreamy 
and  meditative  Jean  has  watched  this  veiled  girl 
come  and  go  in  his  tranquil  house,  and  he  has 
thought  of  her  as  one  who  is  young  and  fair  —  or 
perhaps  he  has  thought  of  her  only  as  a  veiled  mys- 
tery. It  may  be  he  has  learned  to  love  this  mystery 
—  this  silent  Gudule,  concealed  beneath  her  white 
garments.  But  his  love  is  faint  and  visionary,  a 
dream  rather  than  a  reality.  Little  by  little,  how- 
ever, he  wakens  to  a  stronger  interest  in  her. 
Across  the  veil  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  her  white 
face;  but  her  hair?  What  color  is  her  hair?  It 
becomes  a  passion,  an  obsession.  He  feels  that  life 
is  worth  nothing  if  he  cannot  know  the  color  of  her 
hidden  hair.  At  last  he  tells  her  of  his  love  —  is  it 
love  or  merely  the  fantasy  of  a  grave  and  lonely 
man  ?  Gudule  makes  no  reply.  All  this  is  so  far 
from  her  quotidian  life  that  she  does  not  even  un- 
derstand it.  Then  Jean  takes  courage  and  asks  her 
to  tell  him  the  color  of  her  hair.  And  the  veiled 
Beguin  nun  replies  :  "  I  do  not  know,  because  when 
I  clothe  myself  it  is  not  yet  day,  and  when  I  lay 
aside  my  veil  it  is  already  dark."  And  when  he 
presses  her  for  an  answer  she  speaks  a  few  cold 
words  and  goes  away.  The  old  aunt  is  very  ill, 
and  when  she  dies  Jean  knows  that  Sister  Gudule 
will  leave  his  house.  He  dreams  of  marrying  her. 
Why  not  ?  The  Beguin  nuns  do  not  take  perpetual 
vows ;  they  are  free  to  go  again  into  the  world. 
And  then  he  would  know  — 


68  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

At  that  moment  the  old  aunt  dies,  and  Sister 
Gudule,  wakened  by  the  servant,  rushes  in  —  she 
has  had  no  time  to  put  on  her  veil.  And  Jean 
seeing  her,  cries  :  "  She  —  it  is  no  longer  she."  He 
does  not  love  her ;  what  he  loved  was  the  mystery 
of  her  hair.  He  parts  from  her  with  a  cold  farewell. 
And  over  all  you  hear  the  rhythmic  clamor  of  the 
bells  of  Bruges. 

"  Le  Voile  "  is  not  a  drama,  as  I  have  said  ;  but 
it  is  an  exquisite  poem,  and  the  symbol  is  subtle  and 
full  of  beauty.  There  are  few  men,  even  the  most 
matter-of-fact,  who  have  not  loved  the  hidden  hair 
of  Gudule. 

Georges  Rodenbach  wrote  like  a  man  who  had  an 
orchid  in  his  buttonhole  and  the  fear  of  God  in  his 
heart.  His  work  is  at  once  aristocratic,  delicate, 
chiselled,  and  as  well  informed  with  great  tenderness 
and  a  melancholy  peculiarly  his  own. 


Max   Elskamp  and    Fernand   Severin 

.  .  .  un  vieil  homme  de  cent  ans 

Qui  dit  selon  la  chair,  Flandre  et  le  sang: 

Souvenez-vous-en,  souvenez-vous-en, 

En  ouvrant  son  cceur  de  ses  doigts  tremblants 

Pour  montrer  a  tous  sa  vie  comme  un  livre, 
Et,  dans  sa  joie  comme  en  ses  oraisons, 
Tout  un  genre  humain  occupe  a  vivre 
En  ses  vies  pres  d'hommes  et  d'enfants. 

In  these  verses  —  they  are  from  "  Enluminures  " 
—  I  have  always  thought  that  Max  Elskamp 
summed  up  his  poetry.  He  is  the  poet  of  a  happy 
Flanders,  where  the  bells  ring  carillons  of  hope  and 
faith  and  joy.  He  is  naif  and  mystic.  In  order  to 
enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven  he  has  made  himself 
as  a  little  child.  For  him  angels  walk  the  old 
Flemish  streets  at  night ;  there  are  daily  miracles  in 
the  ancient  cathedrals.  He  looks  upon  life  with 
the  eyes  of  the  contemporaries  of  Memmling  and 
Van  Eyck.  He  sings  litanies  to  the  Virgin  —  to 
Mary  of  the  Sun  and  Rain,  Mary  of  Ineffable 
Things  —  and  his  verses  have  the  simplicity  of  folk- 
songs. He  sings  of  the  poor  man  and  the  joys  of 
labor  in  the  fields.  He  makes  a  little  book  of  em- 
blems in  the  fashion  that  was  dear  to  Gabriel  Har- 
vey and   Edmund   Spenser.     In   each   emblem    he 

69 


70  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

incarnates  a  passion,  an   idea,  a   virtue.      He    is   a 
belated  monk. 

In  almost  all  the  verse  of  the  neo-Christians 
there  is  a  hint  of  insincerity.  Perhaps  Verlaine  is 
the  only  profoundly  religious  poet  of  our  day. 
Elskamp's  love  for  the  old  religion  seems  to  be 
largely  poetical  —  love  for  the  altar  and  the  candles 
and  the  bells,  love  for  the  slim  angels  in  the  painted 
windows.  His  love  for  the  Virgin  is  compounded 
of  love  for  illumined  missals  and  love  of  race.  The 
Virgin  he  worships  is  the  Virgin  of  Flanders,  smil- 
ing comfortably  from  some  old  canvas :  — 

Marie  de  mes  beaux  navires, 
Marie  etoile  de  la  mer, 
me  void  triste  et  bien  amer 
d 'avoir  si  mal  tente  vous  dire. 

Max  Elskamp  has  recovered  an  old,  fresh  view 
of  life.  He  has  brought  back  to  literature  the  frank 
simplicity  of  the  old  faith,  and  he  has  hymned  it  in 
verses  of  chaste  and  exquisite  beauty.  The  chief 
distinction  of  his  verse  is  its  music.  Not  even  Gus- 
tave  Kahn  has  bent  free  verse  so  victoriously  to  the 
musical  mood. 


Of  the  young  Belgians  Fernand  Severin  is  the 
only  poet  of  note  who  proclaims  his  devotion  to 
the  austere  rules  of  the  old  prosody.     His  poetry  is 


Fern;  nd  Severin 


THE  BELGIAN  RENASCENCE  71 

beautiful  in  spite  of  his  dogged  deference  to  abol- 
ished canons.  His  verse  has  the  polish  and  artifice 
that  Baudelaire  made  the  mode  of  his  day ;  his 
thought  is  not  without  souvenirs  of  the  gloating 
sentimentalism  that  had  its  awful  end  in  Coppee. 
One  might  say  truly  enough  that  Severin  was  born 
with  souvenirs.  The  old  dreams  haunt  his  imagina- 
tion. He  lives  among  the  old  flowers  and  the  old 
ideals.  His  thoughts  go  out  on  the  old  crusades. 
He  wanders  in  gardens  "  bathed  in  silence  and  the 
moon,"  and  sees  in  nature  the  "beauty  of  a  dream." 
He  is  sweet,  contained,  accomplished  —  a  pale 
grandson  of  Lamartine  strolling  through  a  Corot 
landscape.  He  does  not  raise  his  voice.  He  does 
not  gesticulate.  There  is  a  charm,  discreet  and  ex- 
ceptional, in  his  lyric  gentleness.  He  is  the  last  of 
the  classic  poets  —  this  sweet  poet  of  "  Le  Lys," 
of  "  Un  Chant  dans  l'Ombre,"  of  the  "  Don 
d'Enfance."  He  is  the  last  poet  who  dares  sing 
of  the  muses  and  the  lyre  :  — 

Si  ton  sang  a  rougi  les  chemins  de  l'erreur, 

Ah  !  qu'importe  ?     Un  Lethe  d'ineffable  langueur 

Baigne  les  vallons  bleus  ou  t'ont  pleure  les  Muses. 

Que  cherchais-tu,  dis-nous,  parmi  le  peuple  vain  ? 
La  Lyre  t'a  berce  dans  un  calme  divin  ; 
La-bas  gronde  a  jamais  la  vie  aux  voix  confuses! 

Mais  toi  chanteur  paisible,  a  l'ombre  de  tes  bois, 

Silencieux  pour  tous,  pour  toi  peuples  de  voix, 

En  quel  bienheureux  songe,  enfant,  tu  te  recueilles! 


72  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Revicns  nous!  Et,  fidele  au  reve  familier, 
Ravis  le  bois  celeste  ou  grandit  ton  laurier 
D'un  chant  simple  et  nouveau  comme  le  bruit  des  feuilles. 

Are  they  not  charming  verses  ?  Were  you  to 
ask  me  to  define  their  charm,  I  should  say,  I  fancy, 
that  it  lies  in  the  delicious  purity  of  expression. 
Once  after  a  stormy  Wagner  night  I  went  into 
Schiller's  room  in  Weimar  town.  I  sent  away  the 
old  caretaker,  and  sat  down  at  Schiller's  harpsichord 
and  played  in  the  darkness  —  played,  very  gently, 
little  tinkling  sonatas  of  Scarlatti  and  faded  Italian 
minuets. 

And  now,  when  I  read  Severin's  verses,  that  night 
comes  back  to  me,  with  all  its  faded  artifice  and 
faded  charm. 


The  Last  of  the  Parnassians 


i 


Catulle  Mendes 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Catulle  Mendes, 

Faded  and  blond  and  fat, 
Wandered  by  night  through  Paris, 

Dreaming  of  this  and  that  ; 
It  dreamed  of  gray  Judea, 

Of  Parsifal  and  gnomes, 
And  passing  the  gates  of  Judith, 

It  dreamed  of — Augusta  Holmes. 
Where  the  sad  lights  of  Montmartre 

Shine,  pitifully  red, 
The  soul  of  Catulle  Mendes 

Paused  waiting  for  the  dead. 
And  small  pale  girls  came  trooping 

With  hot,  incessant  eyes, 
They  beckoned  and  whimpered  and  nodded 

With  laughter  and  little  cries. 
And  women  of  rose  and  amber 

Streamed  past  him  like  blown  clouds, 
But  the  soul  of  Mendes  shuddered, 

For  the  women  walked  in  shrouds. 
All  dead  and  damned  they  walked  there  — 

They  were  sand  and  wind  and  flame  — 
And  the  soul  of  Mendes  softened, 

And  called  them  name  by  name. 

73 


74  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

It  was  strange  there  on  Montmartre, 
(The  lights  morose  and  red), 

To  hear  the  soul  of  Mendes 
Talk  with  the  sheeted  dead. 


BELIEVE  me,  it  was  very  strange.  Hour 
after  hour  we  had  walked  the  silent  streets,  the 
streets  immitigably  gray.  It  was  not  Hugo's 
Paris  —  city  of  light  —  it  was  a  sad  Paris,  a  Paris 
neither  splendid  nor  horrible,  a  Paris  inert  and  mon- 
strous under  linen  cloths  of  fog.  We  wandered. 
At  my  side,  step  for  step,  went  the  Soul  of  Catulle 
Mendes.     It  spread  its  arms  abroad  and  cried  aloud 

—  to  the  winter  air  and  the  gray  night.  And  the 
voice  was  as  the  voice  of  Job  what  time  he  sat  upon 
a  dunghill  and  scratched  himself  wi'  a  broken  pot. 

"  I  am  old,"  cried  the  Soul  of  Mendes,  "  and 
faded  and  fat.  For  others  are  the  songs  that  came 
unbidden,  the  gracile  girls  who  were  eager  for  kisses, 
the  flowers  and  laughter  of  life  !  Ah  !  the  old  skies 
and  the  lust  of  life,  men  and  the  nostrils  of  women, 
the  verses  of  Michael  Angelo,  lilies  and  the  little 
breasts  of  Mary  Magdalene,  the  music  of  silver 
flutes,  the  ankles  of  Herodias  and  the  roses  of 
Elizabeth  of  Hungary,  the  sighs  of  Cordelia  and 
the  sighs  of  Desdemona,  the  purple  splendor  of  the 
robe  of  Marcus  Aurelius  and  the  robe  of  Louis  of 
Bavaria.     Oh  !  vale  of  Tempe,  lake  of  Starnberg ! 

—  white  swan  of  Lohengrin,  lilies  and  candor  and 
elohim,  eternity ! " 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  PARNASSIANS         75 

And  the  days  when  Catulle  Mendes  was  "  the 
wickedest  man  in  Paris  "  have  passed  forever.  (One 
cannot  be  at  once  fat  and  wicked;  growth  of  the 
waist-line  is  coincident  with  increase  in  virtue  and 
Daniel  Lambert  is  the  good  man's  ideal.)  Youth 
passes;  and  for  Catulle  Mendes  —  as  for  the  rest 
of  us  —  all  that  is  left  is  a  little  flirting  with  the 
ghosts  of  old  days,  a  little  visionary  mourning  for 
dead  sins  and  faded  sensations.  He  is  old  and  fat 
and  the  flagons  of  life  reek  with  stale  beer. 

Once  —  then  he  was  a  poet. 

He  had  long,  golden  hair  and  a  blond  beard,  like 
a  young  rabbi.  He  had  youth  and  beauty  and 
subtle  talent.  He  was  so  sleek,  so  gentle,  so  bright 
and  gay  and  cynical,  this  Catulle  Mendes.  He 
wrote  rare  rhymes,  ecstatic,  voluptuous,  deliriously 
wicked  —  for  there  was  in  him  a  brutal  streak  of 
original  sin ;  he  wrote  in  strange  metres,  in  old 
rhythms  culled  from  Ronsard ;  he  wrote  Lesbian 
sonnets,  with  interlacing  rhymes ;  he  foreshadowed 
the  mysticism,  obscure  and  pagan,  of  the  poets  of 
to-day.  He  sang  of  kisses,  and  breasts  —  always 
kisses,  as  one  might  read  a  bill  of  fare  instead  of 
dining ! 

The  literary  eunuchs,  to  whom  decadence  is  as 
impossible  as  growth,  talk  smugly  of  the  decadents 
and  much  folly  is  said  and  printed ;  but  the  young 
Catulle  Mendes  was  the  true  decadent,  as  Calli- 
machus  was,  as    Claudian  was  and  Luxorius.     All 


76  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

the  beauty  of  the  formal,  the  external,  was  at  his 
beck,  and  call.  And  this  damned  him  —  he  sold  his 
soul  for  the  beautiful  phrase.  But  what  cleverness 
was  his,  immense,  amazing,  diabolical ! 

He  imitated  Heine's  little  songs  so  perfectly  that 
one  might  fancy  one  were  reading  the  "  Inter- 
mezzo "  ;  he  wrote  "  Hesperus,"  and  the  voice  was 
the  voice  of  Catulle,  the  son  of  Tibulle  Mendes, 
but  the  hands  were  those  of  Leconte  de  Lisle.  He 
wrote  "  Contes  Epiques,"  and  the  thunder  was  that 
of  Hugo,  pealing  grandiosely  in  the  "  Legende  des 
Siecles." 

How  completely  he  had  the  trick  of  literature ! 

He  juggled  so  expertly  that  he  almost  persuaded 
one  generation  that  literature  was  all  sleight  of  hand. 
Have  you  read  "  Pour  Lire  au  Bain  "  and  "  Pour 
Lire  au  Couvent "  ?  Then  you  know  him,  full  of 
science  and  artifice,  with  wise  graces,  a  martyr  to  the 
sophisticated  sensuality  of  phrase. 

He  was  handsome  in  those  days,  with  that  blond, 
pathetic  head  of  Christ  —  the  irony  of  it !  —  and 
those  calm,  piercing  eyes,  the  red,  feminine  mouth 
smiling  contemptuously  through  the  yellow  beard. 
He  had  little  Hebraic  gestures ;  he  was  restless  as  a 
panther;  he  would  stroke  your  coat-sleeve  as  he 
whispered  in  your  ear  Satanic  things,  witty,  impos- 
sible, nocturnal  things.  It  was  Baudelaire,  the  pro- 
fessor emeritus  of  literary  corruption,  who  said  of 
him  :  "  I    love    this    young    man  —  he    has  all  the 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  PARNASSIANS         77 

vices."  And  Sainte-Beuve,  shocked  and  pleased, 
passed  judgment  upon  him,  saying:  "Honey  and 
poison." 

Let  me  tell  you  the  story,  decorously  and  with  no 
undue  impertinence,  of  two  poets,  who  loved  right 
royally  and  were  married  for  a  little  while.  I  shall 
not  tell  you  why  they  quarrelled  ;  perhaps  neither 
was  to  blame ;  it  was  incompatibility  of  rhyme. 
(You  remember  that  Daudet  wrote  very  wisely  of 
artists'  wives  and  deduced  the  lesson  that  the  man 
of  talent  should  never  marry  a  woman  of  talent. 
The  ideal  wife  for  the  painter,  the  musician  or  the 
man  of  letters  is  the  matter-of-fact  woman.  She 
should  be  a  trifle  dull,  a  trifle  heavy.  She  should 
have  an  animal-like  somnolence  and  stolidity  in 
which  he  might  rest  as  in  a  mental  feather  bed. 
The  artist  is  more  or  less  irresponsible  ;  he  is  full  of 
irritancies.  His  work  demands  of  him  a  certain 
intensity,  which  when  the  strain  is  over,  lapses  into 
peevishness,  or  at  all  events,  into  weakness.  In 
these  moments  he  does  not  want  the  counter-irri- 
tant of  a  woman's  brilliancy.  He  wants  a  mental 
feather  bed.) 

The  poets  of  whom  I  write  are  Catulle  Mendes 
and  Judith  Gautier.  She  is  —  do  you  recall  Gon- 
court's  "  There  are  no  women  of  genius ;  women 
of  genius  are  men"?  —  she  is,  in  spite  of  all  epi- 
grams, a  woman  of  genius  —  a  sad  little  genius  full 
of  whims  and  morbid  fantasies,  but  genius  at  bottom. 


78  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

And  in  those  days  Judith  Gautier  was  very  beauti- 
ful, beautiful  as  one  of  her  father's  poems,  in  per- 
fection of  line  and  haunting  grace.  "  Face  of  the 
moon  and  lotus  eyes  " —  h'elas  !  helas !  les  jours 
a"  autrefois.  Her  profile  was  that  of  a  Greek  cameo. 
It  was  as  though  in  her  white  and  stately  grace 
she  had  stepped  down  from  the  Parthenon  frieze. 
Withal,  there  was  something  savage  in  her  strange, 
yellow  eyes  — something  barbarous,  untamed.  And 
in  her  attitudes  there  was  the  indolence  of  an  East- 
ern slave.     She  was  half-cat  and  half-goddess. 

And  the  world  bored  her. 

She  wrote  poems  in  prose  and  verse  —  charming 
little  poems,  filled  with  the  innocence  of  dreams  and 
the  sadness  of  the  young  girl.  She  amused  herself 
with  the  sciences,  for  these  things  are  but  a  poet's 
recreation.  She  played  with  the  lizards,  blue  and 
gold.  And  she  was  bored.  The  world's  old  ennui 
took  her,  as  it  took  Byron  among  his  books  and 
mistresses,  as  it  takes  the  caged  lions  and  sets  them 
yawning. 

Then  a  poet  came  and  Judith,  tired  of  her  lizards, 
married  him. 

It  is  now  over  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  that  he 
came  from  Bordeaux  to  conquer  Paris.  And  fame 
came  to  him  easily.  At  first  it  was  only  the  fame 
of  the  cafes  and  creameries  of  the  Latin  Quarter. 
At  first  it  was  only  the  adulation  of  the  young 
poets,  the  young  students,  who  met  in   his  shabby 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  PARNASSIANS         79 

mansarde.      But  the  noise  of  him  went  out  into  the 
world.     He  had  created  a  new  Parnassus. 

Voici  Dierx  et  d'Hervilly, 
Armand  Renaud,  Francois  Coppee, 
Glatigny  reveur  et  pali ; 
Voici  Dierx  et  d'Hervilly. 
Pour  guerir  un  siecle  vieilli 
lis  cherchent  la  pharmacopee. 
Voici  Dierx  et  d'Hervilly, 
Armand  Renaud,  Francois  Coppee, 

Sully  Prudhomme  et  Cazalis 
Se  tiennent  pres  de  Lafenestre, 
Theuriet  compare  a  des  lys 
Sully  Prudhomme  et  Cazalis. 
Cazalis  venant  de  Tiflis 
Serre  la  main  d' Armand  Silvestre. 
Sully  Prudhomme  et  Cazalis 
Se  tiennent  pres  de  Lafenestre. 

On  y  rencontre  aussi  Mendes 
A  qui  nul  rythme  ne  resiste, 
Qu'il  chante  l'Olympe  ou  l'Ades ; 
On  y  rencontre  aussi  Mendes. 
Des  Essarts  venant  de  Rhodez 
Lui  lit  un  sonnet  fantaisiste. 
On  y  rencontre  aussi  Mendes 
A  qui  nul  rythme  ne  resiste. 

Many  others,  too,  gathered  in  those  rooms  in  the 
Rue  de  Douai, —  Jose  de  Maria-Heredia,  Verlaine, 
Leconte  de  Lisle,  Mallarme,  Villiers  de  ITsle  Adam, 
Theodore  de  Banville  ;  others  of  whom  the  world 


80  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

has  never  heard,  nature's  failures,  poor  devils  made 
in  derision. 

Mendes  would  run  his  white,  long  fingers  through 
his  golden  hair. 

"  Do  you  not  think,  the  word  Friday  is  violet  ?  " 
he  would  ask. 

One  discussed  it  pro  and  con.  All  words  had 
their  colors  in  the  Rue  de  Douai,  years  ago,  when 
we  had  young  blood  full  of  iron  and  alcohol  and 
heads  full  of  dreams.  Brave  theories,  not  yet 
laughed  down.  The  vowels  had  colors.  "A,"  the 
broad  "  a,"  was  black  ;  "e"  equalled  white ;  " i  " 
was  blue  ;  "  o  "  was  red  and  "  u  "  was  yellow.  Brave 
theories.  The  sound  of  the  harp  was  white,  the 
violin  blue,  the  trumpet  red. 

Mendes  was  king  of  this  theorizing,  dreaming 
world,  made  up  of  youngsters  drunk  with  youth 
and  rhyme.  He,  indeed,  was  not  all  a  dreamer. 
He  inherited  from  his  father,  Tibulle  Mendes,  a 
speculative  Israelite  not  without  guile,  a  certain 
sense  of  affairs.  It  was  not  strong  enough  to  kill 
the  poet  in  him,  but  it  made  him  a  perpetual 
founder  of  magazines,  journals,  newspapers.  In 
twenty  years  he  has  founded  twenty  papers,  no  one 
of  which  has  survived.  I  have  a  few  old  volumes 
now,  worth  their  weight  in  silver  —  "  The  Fantastic 
Review,"  "The  Contemporary  Parnassus,"  "The 
Republic  of  Letters,"  "  L'Assomoir "  (M.  Zola's 
novel  was  new  in  the  days  when  that  was  founded), 
"  The  Review  of  To-morrow." 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  PARNASSIANS         81 

And  that  marriage  of  poets  — 

On  the  table  at  my  elbow  is  an  old,  French  news- 
paper in  which  is  an  "  Avis  "  to  the  public  by  M. 
Mendes.  It  is  a  piece  of  exquisite  workmanship, 
delicate  and  impeccable  literature,  but  it  is  brutal  as 
a  blow  of  the  fist.  It  is  full  of  sneering,  triumphant 
avowals  of  his  infidelity.  As  I  read  it  again  after 
all  these  years  I  see  him  come  into  the  entresol  of 
that  old  house  in  the  Boul'  Mich',  which  was  the 
entresol  du  Parnasse,  a  smile  in  his  watchful  eyes  and 
a  sneer  on  his  red,  sensual  mouth. 

"  Here  is  Mme.  Mendes'  opportunity,"  he  said, 
and  threw  the  paper  on  the  wine-stained  table. 

She  took  advantage  of  the  opportunity.  A  de- 
cree of  separation  was  pronounced  in  her  favor. 
She  went  back  to  the  little  house  in  Neuilly,  to 
the  little  garden  looking  out  on  the  Seine,  where 
Theophile  Gautier,  drunk  with  haschisch,  dreamed 
away  his  life.  There  was  a  bust  of  Wagner  in  the 
little  salon ;  there  were  Japanese  screens  and  cur- 
tains —  which  had  not  yet  been  vulgarized  into  the 
atmosphere  of  the  modern  flat.  She  modelled  jolly 
little  figures  in  clay — squat  Chinese  idols,  dainty 
Japanese  maidens,  Pans  and  satyrs,  young  Bacchus, 
over-fat  from  wine,  slender  Greek  girls.  And  she 
wrote  poems  in  prose  and  verse;  queer  little  songs 
of  faded  leaves  and  rainy  islands.  Then  she  dis- 
covered the  Orient.  A  little,  yellow,  slant-eyed 
man,  whose  queue  hung  to  the  hem  of  his  purple 


82  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

blouse,  Tin-Tun-Ling,  taught  her  Chinese.  At 
night  the  desolate  heathen  composed  hieroglyphic 
verses  in  honor  of  her  eyebrows.  To-day  she  is 
savante.  She  has  made  the  East  her  own.  The 
streets  of  Pekin,  the  blue  hills  of  Japan  are  as 
familiar  to  her  as  the  lengths  of  her  shining  hair. 
You  will  read  her  books  and  then  you  will  know 
her  —  those  marvellous  Eastern  books,  haunted 
with  strangely  magnificent  figures,  Chinese  and 
Japanese,  full  of  heroic  candors,  of  pure  and  ardent 
passion,  chivalrous,  tender  —  there  you  shall  see  the 
white  soul,  the  proud  heart,  the  chaste  word. 

In  time  she  found  another  poet ;    and    Mendes 
married  again  —  Augusta  Holmes  and  many  others. 


Jules  Lemaitre,  speaking  in  the  loose  manner  of 
the  popular  preacher,  said  of  Mendes :  "  Were  I  a 
Christian,  I  would  vehemently  curse  his  works  and 
pray  God,  the  while,  for  his  soul ;  and  were  I  a 
legislator  I  would  banish  him  beyond  the  frontiers 
of  the  Republic,  crowned  with  the  faded  roses  of  his 
last  nocturnal  debauch."  To  the  critic  who  never 
had  M.  Lemaitre's  opportunity  of  studying  litera- 
ture while  birching  the  unthinking  end  of  boys,  these 
pretty  antitheses  are  quite  unmeaning.  Catulle 
Mendes  has  published  sixty  volumes  of  verse, 
romance,  drama,  criticism ;  he  has  played  a  very 
important  role  —  if  not  the  most  important  —  in  the 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  PARNASSIANS         83 

French  literature  of  the  last  twenty-five  years ;  he 
created  a  mode  that  attracted  and  influenced  all  the 
poets  of  his  generation ;  he  is  the  most  accom- 
plished man  of  letters  living  —  master  of  all  the 
artifices  and  secrets  of  literature ;  and  in  all  his 
books  there  are  only  a  half-dozen  pages  that  the 
world  will  not  willingly  let  die.  And  his  failure  — 
splendid,  elaborate,  multiform  —  is  due  to  a  defect 
which  may  be  racial.  He  has  no  faith  in  himself. 
His  talent  is  not  self-centred  ;  it  does  not  revolve 
on  its  own  pivot.  He  is  never  triumphantly  him- 
self. His  very  theory  of  poetry  is  impersonal.  In 
the  elaboration  of  the  jewelled  line  and  carven 
phrase,  there  must  be  a  sense  of  aloofness  —  the 
artist  must  stand  back  from  his  work.  Mendes  has 
been  unwisely  compared  to  Walter  Pater,  this  sen- 
sitive artist,  who  carried  the  pale  flag  of  idealism 
into  the  grimy  streets  and  roaring  shops  of  modern 
English  literature.  Now  Walter  Pater's  chief  note 
is  that  of  sincerity.  It  is  his  intellectual  sincerity 
that  makes  the  worth  of  his  appreciations,  whether 
he  writes  of  the  diffident  beauty  of  a  Botticelli,  the 
sculptured  stones  of  Chartres,  the  windows  of  Le 
Mans,  a  fugue-like  thought  of  Wordsworth,  pointed 
architecture  or  the  chansons  of  Bellay.  Catulle 
Mendes  has  touched  almost  every  phase  of  life. 
He  has  sung  of  the  flowers  and  the  birds  in  the 
white  of  the  air;  of  the  blue  sky  and  the  boudoir; 
of  blond  barbarians  and  antique  Greece ;  of  beggars 


84  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

and  fairies  ;  he  has  sung  everything  and  said  every- 
thing —  all  with  the  air  of  one  who  quotes  from  an 
anthology.  Little  cantharides  of  verse  that  have 
the  savor  of  Parny ;  strophes  that  ring  stormily 
empty,  like  Hugo's  lines ;  prose  as  impeccable  as 
Flaubert's  — you  search  vainly  through  it  all  to  find 
a  man  ;  there  is  only  a  man  of  letters.  You  sense, 
now  and  then,  something  perverse,  malign,  subtly 
impure,  sceptical,  and  this,  for  want  of  anything 
more  definite,  you  call  the  soul  of  Catulle  Mendes ; 
but  it  is  only  the  ghost  of  a  soul  —  the  wraith  of 
Torrentius. 

To  me  Catulle  Mendes'  life  is  very  tragic ;  it  is 
the  eternal  tragedy  of  the  talent  that  would  fain 
be  genius.  I  turn  over  the  pages  of  his  books  — 
volume  after  volume  —  and  wonder  at  the  immense 
labor  that  ends  in  nothing.  The  mountain  travails 
and  there  is  born  a  negligible  madrigal.  Here  are 
his  plays, — "  Justice,"  which  would  be  Hugo  ;  "  Les 
Meres  Ennemies,"  with  its  famous  apology  of  the 
Pole  who  committed  treason :  "  Jesus  peut-etre 
avait  humilie  Judas"  ;  "  Medee  "  —  for  has  not 
every  one  written  a  Medea?  They  are  all  made 
of  potter's  clay,  and  in  none  of  them  is  the  breath 
of  life.  He  is  the  chameleon  of  letters,  and  he  is 
all  colors  and  colorless.  And  to  be  the  chameleon 
is,  for  the  poet,  the  great  tragedy.  Not  to  be  able 
to  be  one's  self —  upon  my  word,  of  all  tragedies  it 
is  the  ghastliest. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  PARNASSIANS         85 

Unhappy  poet,  he  has  known  art,  but  has   never 
known  the  dream. 


Do  you  know  those  little  tales  pour  lire  au  cou- 
vent  ?  Shall  we  read  one  of  them  together,  not 
in  their  French  beauty,  which  is  the  opalescent 
beauty  of  mother-of-pearl,  but  in  paler  English  r 
This  is  the  story  : 

Once  upon  a  time,  as  I  lav  dreaming,  a  form  ap- 
peared to  me.  And  as  this  form  resembled  a  young 
girl  dressed  for  a  ball  —  her  wings  were  imitations 
of  puffed  satin  sleeves  —  I  knew  at  once  it  was  an 
angel. 

"  Beautiful  Angel,"  I  said,  "  what  have  I  done  to 
merit  this  visit  ?  The  blue  hours  of  the  night  are 
in  my  chamber ;  all  about  me  are  the  ghosts  of  per- 
fumed tresses  and  shadows  of  weary  kisses  ;  an  odor 
of  sin  is  mixed  with  the  patchouli,  shaken  from  my 
troubled  curtains.  Beautiful  Angel,  are  these  worth 
the  blue  incense  of  Heaven  which  rises  from  the 
unseen  censers  swung  by  the  eleven  thousand  vir- 
gins ?  Do  not,  I  beg,  go  near  my  writing-table* 
where  perchance  you  may  see  the  picture  of  some 
dancing  girl,  clothed  only  in  the  souvenir  of  a  frock 
and  the  regret  of  a  bodice.  And  my  books  —  do 
not  look  at  them  !  You  will  find  only  sombre  and 
bitter  poems,  which  I  read  with  laughter,  or  gay, 
mad  tales,  which  I  read  with  melancholy." 


86  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

The  Angel  replied : 

"  Spare  me  your  warnings.  When  I,  or  those 
who  are  like  unto  me,  enter  the  homes  of  the  living, 
we  know  what  we  shall  find.  Ask  not  the  reason 
of  my  visit.  To  us  belongs  the  divine  caprice  of 
showing  mercy  to  those  who  deserve  it  not.  It  is 
the  fad  of  Omnipotence." 

I  made  no  answer.  I  could  not  contradict  an 
apparition  which  looked  so  much  like  a  young 
woman  dressed  for  a  ball. 

"  I  have  come,"  the  Angel  went  on,  "  to  ask  you 
to  ascend  to  Heaven  forthwith,  without  waiting  for 
the  barren  formalities  of  death  and  funeral." 

"  Let  us  set  out  at  once,"  I  made  answer,  "  for  I 
have  always  had  a  fervent  desire  to  contemplate  the 
august  splendors  of  Paradise."  Hardly  had  I  spoken 
the  word  when  a  cloud,  rose-hued,  balloon-shaped, 
descended  through  the  open  ceiling ;  the  basket, 
large  enough  for  two,  was  made  of  woven  star- 
beams.  When  we  were  seated,  the  Angel  and  I, 
the  Angel  gave  the  word  to  invisible  servitors : 

"  Let  go  !  " 

We  shot  into  the  blue  and  sombre  solitude  of  the 
night. 

The  dwellings  of  men  hid  in  the  shadows ;  the 
dwindling  mountains  were  lost  to  sight ;  there  was 
only  the  blue  rush  of  illimitable  night. 

"  Beautiful  Angel,"  I  asked,  "  is  Paradise  in  truth 
as    magnificent    as    the    Paradise    of   our    dreams  ? 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  PARNASSIANS         87 

Speak  to  me,  my  divine  guide  !  Tell  me  of  the 
marvels  I  shall  see,  the  joys  my  soul  shall  know ! " 

The  Angel  deigned  to  make  answer,  saying : 
"  No  word  of  human  speech,  which  alone  you  can 
understand,  can  express  the  everlasting  wonder  of 
Heavenly  sojourn.  Should  you  picture  to  yourself 
the  miracle  of  a  garden-close,  where  the  earth  was 
bright  and  transparent  as  summer  sunlight,  where 
all  the  flowers  were  virgins  more  ingenuous  than 
lilies,  where  the  air  was  made  of  vaporized  pearls  — 
your  dream  would  be  as  far  from  the  divine  reality 
as  a  black  night  o'  winter  from  April's  noontide." 

"  Let  us  hasten,"  I  cried,  "  let  us  hasten." 

But  I  perceived  that  the  balloon  —  we  had  already 
passed  the  first  stars  —  hung  motionless  in  im- 
mensity. 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  I  cried. 

"  I  see  what  is  the  matter,"  said  the  Angel,  "  you 
are  too  heavy." 

As  I  had  not  taken  time  to  clothe  myself  for  the 
voyage,  I  had  not  even  the  resource  of  throwing 
overboard  my  clothing. 

"  Besides,"  said  the  Angel,  who  read  my  thought, 
"  that  would  not  serve.  The  weight  which  stays 
our  ascent  is  not  material.  If  you  wish  to  ascend 
you  must  cast  away  your  ambitions,  your  dreams  of 
wealth  and  glory,  which  weigh  you  toward  the 
earth." 

Ah,  it  was  no  easy  task  !     What  poet  does  not 


88  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

hold  dear  his  dreams  —  dreams  of  cities  loud  with 
acclaim,  of  crowds  swayed  by  the  pomp  of  his  verse, 
and,  in  palaces  marble  and  gold,  the  throngs  of 
young  poetesses,  who  chant  the  praises  of  his  tri- 
umphant rhyme  ?  But  Paradise  ?  Down,  down 
into  the  blue  darkness  beneath,  I  dropped  them 
one  by  one  toward  the  earth  I  disdained  —  my 
hopes,  my  pride,  my  dreams  of  fame  and  riches. 
And  the  balloon,  rose-hued,  shot  far  beyond  all 
stars. 

Although  we  were  still  far  from  our  high  goal, 
a  white  and  gentle  light  was  round  about  us.  We 
had  passed  from  the  violet  shadows  which  hint  of 
earth.  In  a  brightness  which  seemed  made  of  fluid 
silver,  great  white  ghosts  passed  silently  —  the 
blown  wind  from  their  wings  stirred  in  my  hair. 
The  delight  of  dawning  Heaven  smote  upon  me ; 
already  I  felt  — 

The  balloon  hung  motionless. 

"  I  see  what  is  the  matter,"  said  the  Angel,  "  you 
are  still  too  heavy." 

"  Have  I  not  cast  away  ambition,  dreams  of 
opulence  and  glory  ?  " 

"  But  deep  in  you  are  the  memories  of  earthly 
loves  —  you  have  not  forgotten  the  teasing  laughter, 
the  kisses  of  joyous,  sinful  women.  These  tender 
regrets  weigh  you  down  to  earth." 

What,  you,  too,  reminiscences  of  bright  and 
subtle  loves  ;  souvenirs  of  diffident  kisses  and  fra- 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  PARNASSIANS        89 

grant,  dishevelled  hair ;  memories  of  murmuring 
midnights  and  haggard  dawns  —  I  must  lose  you 
all !  But  Paradise  ?  Down,  down  into  dusk  for- 
getfulness,  the  recollection  of  rose  lips  and  pallid 
throats  — 

The  balloon  rose,  rose  into  a  splendor  that  was 
not  of  light,  but  of  Heaven. 

The  gates  are  diamond  sheen.  And  the  flame 
of  all,  more  terrible  than  the  naked  lightning,  is 
softer  than  white  rose  petal.  And  through  the 
gates  ajar  I  see  the  diaphanous  glades,  where  flowers 
are  stars,  and  two  by  two  the  gentle  Angels  walk  in 
love,  singing.  Gentle  ones !  The  ecstasy  of 
seraphic  marriage,  the  everlasting  kiss  of  lips  always 
pure,  these  also  I  shall  know,  even  I.  I  shall  enter 
the  august  city  of  eternal  delight  — 

Near  the  threshold  the  balloon  hung  motionless. 
I  was  seized  with  bitter  despair. 

"  Have  I  not  cast  all  away  !  "  I  cried ;  "  ambi- 
tions, vanities,  sinful  luxuries — " 

"  You  are  still  too  heavy,"  said  the  Angel,  "  be- 
cause there  remains  — " 

"  What,  then  !  "  I  cried. 

"In  the  deepest,  hidden  chamber  of  your  heart, 
deeper  than  ambition,  deeper  than  sin,  there  dwells 
the  memory  of  a  child  —  she  is  not  beautiful, 
scarcely  pretty  —  who  turns  away  her  lips  from 
yours ;  it  is  evening  in  the  twilight  of  a  rose  garden, 
and  you  are  a  boy.     This  weight,  as  the  others  — 


90  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

cast  it  away !  See,  the  splendors  of  Paradise 
are  — 

But  I  said  "  No." 

And  I  fell.  I  fell,  through  lights  and  clouds, 
stars  and  worlds,  to  the  black  earth  so  far  from 
Paradise,  so  far !  Stunned,  broken,  dying,  it  may 
be  —  happy  that  I  kept  the  memory  of  that  pale 
child,  so  small,  so  shy,  who  refused  me  her  lips  one 
evening  when  I  was  sixteen,  and  the  rose  leaves 
whispered  to  us  in  the  garden-close. 


And  that  is  a  story  of  Catulle  Mendes ;  not  as 
he  would  wish  you  to  read  it  in  savorsome  French 
words,  but  as  you  and  I  fashion  it,  this  morning 
in  the  convent.  We  chant  it  to  the  matin  bells. 
Shut  up  here  in  our  gray  and  melancholy  loneliness 
we  shall  dream  all  day  of  the  glades  which  are  fairer 
than  fields  of  whitening  rice,  and  of  the  shining  trees 
beneath  which  angels  pace  sweetly,  in  holy  joy, 
together  always.  All  day,  until  the  vesper  bells 
have  rung.  But  at  night,  when  our  thoughts  go 
away  from  us  in  sleep,  and  we  are  led  into  tempta- 
tion, we  shall  remember  a  garden-close  and  youth 
and  roses  and  lips  we  never  kissed. 


Jean  Moreas  and  his  Disciples 

CLOUDS  of  tobacco  smoke,  the  clatter  of 
dominos,  the  rustling  of  newspapers  and 
the  scratching  of  pens,  glasses  that  clink 
and  sing,  the  flick  of  cards  and  money  ringing  on 
the  marble-topped  tables,  the  shuffling  of  waiters 
and  the  babble  of  voices  —  a  babel  of  voices  —  it  is 
the  Cafe  Francois  ier  in  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel. 
Yonder  is  the  corner  in  which  Paul  Verlaine  used 
to  sit,  stirring  his  rum  and  water  and  blinking  at 
the  shining  suits  of  armor.     Over  the  doorway  there 

—  as  you  go  down  to  the  kitchens  —  hangs  one  of 
his  old  clay-pipes.  But  Verlaine  is  dead  and  worms 
have  eaten  him.  In  his  place  are  scores  of  little 
men,  without  glory  and  without  genius  —  his  suc- 
cessors. They  toss  their  locks  of  vagrom  hair  ;  they 
sip  the  pale  milky  absinthe ;  they  recite  their  verses 

—  pale,  milky  verses.  One  of  them  takes  courage. 
He  is  a  little  blond  man  with  eyeglasses  and  pimples. 
In  a  shrill  little  voice  he  recites  a  poem. 

"  C'est  idiot"  the  other  little  poets  growl ;  and 
here  and  there  and  everywhere  under  the  clouds  of 
smoke  echo  pert  criticisms,  fragments  of  verse,  cries 
of"«»  bock  I"  The  big  white  clock  records  the 
hour  of  midnight.  Then  the  Master  enters  —  the 
king-bee  in  this  little  world  of  buzzing  poets. 

9' 


92  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

It  is  Jean  Moreas. 

He  wears  a  long,  monkish  great-coat  reaching  to 
his  heels,  a  silk  hat  tipped  over  his  eyebrows.  His 
mustache  is  twisted  up  truculently.  He  has  the  air 
of  Bobadil,  of  Drawcansir  —  of  a  pirate  of  the  Spanish 
Main.  Across  his  face  runs  a  sneer  like  a  sabre-cut. 
He  stalks  in  sombrely,  a  monocle  glued  in  his  right 
eye — which  is  absurd — and  takes  a  seat  in  Ver- 
laine's  old  corner. 

" Rhum  a  Peau!  "  he  cries  to  the  waiter;  it  is  as 
though  he  were  giving  the  order  for  the  storming  of 
a  convent. 

"  Of  all  poets,"  he  adds  benignly,  "  only  I  and 
Verlaine  have  found  inspiration  in  rum  and  water." 

He  draws  off  one  of  his  gloves  and  with  a  hand, 
white  and  slight  as  a  woman's,  caresses  his  piratical 
mustache.  Opposite  him  is  a  mirror  and  he  catches 
his  reflection  in  it.  For  a  long  time  he  stares  at  it 
as  though  in  an  ecstasy  of  satisfaction. 

Suddenly  in  his  gruff,  funereal  voice,  he  cries 
aloud  :  "  Je  suis  beau  !  Je  suis  beau  !  "  and  drinks 
his  rum  and  water.  No  one  speaks.  One  and  all, 
with  the  mien  of  little  dogs,  his  disciples  watch  him 
in  silent  admiration.  Ah,  my  dear  friends,  it  is  a 
great  thing  to  be  a  poet  —  in  the  Latin  Quarter. 

I  watch  him,  not  without  admiration.  Fie  be- 
longed to  a  past  that  was  other  than  mine ;  there 
are  few  places  where  our  paths  cross  in  the  present ; 
and  yet  I  know  Jean   Moreas,  and  —  I   have  said  it 


JEAN  MOREAS  AND   HIS  DISCIPLES        93 

—  I  admire  him.  I  admire  his  colossal  vanity, 
his  mirthless  egotism,  his   profound   lack  of  humor 

—  oh,  abysmally  deep  !  —  but  more  than  all  I  admire 
him  for  the  seriousness  with  which  he  takes  himself 
and  his  business  of  being  a  poet.  It  is  so  rare,  this 
quality.  Our  generation  is  so  levelled  up  to  the 
commonplace  and  proper  that  there  is  little  pictur- 
esqueness  left.  We  all  wear  hodden  gray.  And  to 
my  mind  there  is  something  infinitely  attractive  in 
Moreas'  flaunting  of  the  purple  rags  of  poetry. 
You  may  remember  Joly,  the  keeper  of  the  cock- 
pit, of  whom  Lavengro  has  written.  He  held  that 
dog-fighting  — "  and  when  I  talks  of  dog-fighting, 
I  of  course  mean  rat-catching  and  badger-baiting, 
ay,  and  bull-baiting — "  was  an  immeasurably  finer 
occupation  than  any  other.  It  is  in  much  the  same 
way  that  Jean  Moreas  looks  upon  poetry.  He  has 
the  true  autolatry  of  the  old  poets ;  he  can  conceive 
genius  only  under  a  literary  form ;  he  entertains  the 
obsolete  prejudice  that  poetry  is  something  so 
hugely  superior  to  everything  else  that  it  confers  a 
sort  of  sacred  character  —  such  as  used  to  attach  to 
idiots  and  kings.  And  it  is  for  this  wholesome 
artistic  seriousness,  this  salutary  artistic  egotism  that 
I  admire  Jean  Moreas.  He  says,  "  I  am  a  poet," 
as  calmly  as  other  men  announce  that  they  are  green- 
grocers or  journalists,  or  manufacturers  of  wooden 
toothpicks. 

I  draw  up  my  chair  to  the  table  at  which  Moreas 


94  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

sits  —  superb  over  his  rum  and  water.  We  shake 
hands  limply  and  doff  our  hats. 

"  When  did  you  arrive  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  The  other  day." 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word  I  don't  know  ;  what  news  ?  " 

"  The  great  news  —  I  have  abolished  the  sym- 
bolists." 

It  was  grandly  said;  thus  might  Napoleon  have 
spoken  of  Marengo  or  Austerlitz. 

"It  was  I  who  invented  symbolism  ;  I,  it  was  I 
who  applied  the  term  to  my  school ;  and  I  defended 
it,  I,  in  a  pamphlet  which  is  not  yet  forgotten  I  be- 
lieve," said  Moreas. 

A  murmur  of  assent  came  from  his  disciples ;  it 
was  not  forgotten. 

"  And  now  I  abolish  it ;  the  decree  has  gone 
forth  —  there  is  no  symbolism  more.  It  did  well 
enough  in  its  day.  It  expressed  well  enough  the 
quality  of  our  art  and,  indeed,  of  art  in  general ; 
but  it  has  been  debased  and  transformed ;  it  has 
become  the  gonfalon  of  a  sect ;  it  has  become  com- 
mon. Nowadays  everyone  is  on  the  lookout  for 
symbols  —  the  surest  way  not  to  find  them.  The 
poet  is  a  symbolist,  but  he  does  not  proclaim  it." 

Through  the  clouds  of  smoke  rumble  gasps  of 
approval  and  sneering  cries  of  "  Des  Symbolistes  !  " 
applausive  cries  of  "  Maitre  !  "  "  Chef  I  "  "  Porte- 
lyre  ! "      Jean    Moreas   is   in   the   vein ;    his    voice 


JEAN  MOREAS  AND  HIS  DISCIPLES       95 

sounds  and  resounds  through  the  smoky  room  ;  he 
intones,  he  chants. 

"  Symbolists,"  he  says,  "  you  see  them  in  the 
shops  with  pens  behind  their  ears.  You  meet  book- 
keepers and  clerks  who  call  themselves  mystics  — 
mystics  !  These  shopbovs  !  No,  I  can  think  of  a 
mystic  only  as  one  who  stands  like  the  saint,  on 
top  of  a  lofty  pillar,  naked,  drenched  by  the  rain, 
flogged  by  the  hail,  burned  by  the  suns  of  the 
desert." 

"And  Maeterlinck?"  I  suggest. 

"This  Dutch  attorney-at-law  —  has  he  ever  stood 
like  a  saint  on  top  of  a — "  etc. 

I  cannot  imagine  Maeterlinck  in  that  posture ; 
I  shift  the   conversation. 

"You  have  destroyed  symbolism,"  I  say,  "even 
as  you  created  it  —  what  will  your  poetry  be  in  the 
future  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  —  as  it  has  been  in  the  past  —  poetry," 
Jean  Moreas  retorts,  and  then,  falling  into  a  grandi- 
ose sing-song,  he  goes  on  :  "I  have  found  another 
name  for  my  school,  and  now  my  poetry  is  the 
poesie  Romane.  That  name  expresses  my  intention. 
It  covers  the  art  of  the  Midi  of  Europe  —  that  art 
which  has  reached  its  highest  development  in  the 
French  literature.  To-day  my  culture  has  attained 
such  a  height  that  I  can  comprehend  this  develop- 
ment from  beginning  to  end ;  there  is  no  line  mark- 
ing off  the    Middle    Age    from    the    Renaissance ; 


96  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

there  is  no  hiatus  between  the  folk-lore  of  the  land 
of  Romanie,  and  my  poetry,  which  is  the  perfection 
of  art ;  they  are  of  the  same  race  and  family ;  thus 
it  is  I  bring  back  the  poesie  Romane.  I  do  not 
refer  to  my  early  prose  works ;  I  have  never  taken 
them  seriously.  I  speak  of  my  poetry  —  les  Syrtes, 
les  Cantilenes,  le  Pelerin  Passionne,  de  Eriphyle. 

"  Je  ne  suis  pas  un  ignorant  dont  les  Muses  ont  ri." 

"  I  suppose  Shakspere's  *  Passionate  Pilgrim  '  sug- 
gested the  title  for  le  Pelerin  Passionne"  I  remarked. 

"  I  do  not  know  English,"  the  poet  replies,  "  and 
then  the  title  was  a  commonplace  of  mediaeval  liter- 
ature." 

Out  of  the  smoke  comes  a  chirping,  as  of  the  four- 
and-twenty  blackbirds  baked  in  a  pie ;  it  is  the 
chirping  of  the  half-baked  poets  and  the  fledgling 
poets,  and  they  chirp  :  "  Maitre  /  Maitre  !  Tell 
us  of  yourself,  tell  us  of  yourself!" 

And  Jean  Moreas  says:  "Ah!  you  are  good, 
little  creatures,  but  you  weary  me.  You  hunt  me. 
You  follow  me  like  hounds.  You  cry,  '  Here  is  a 
man  of  genius  —  view,  halloo ! '  and  fall  upon  me. 
You  fawn.  You  steal  my  hours.  You  do  not 
understand  that  the  man  of  genius  must  be  left 
alone  —  alone  with  his  genius ;  that  he  must  be 
neither  admired  nor  imitated.  Youth  —  ah,  how 
marvellous  is  youth,  how  morbid,  difficult  and  eter- 
nal !  I  think  of  my  own  youth.  How  marvellous 
it  was  that  even  in  infancy  I  sought  the  ideal  —  even 


JEAN  MOREAS  AND  HIS  DISCIPLES       97 

when  I  was  a  child,  scarcely  able  to  speak,  although 
I  was  uncommonly  intelligent  for  my  years,  I  led  a 
revolt  against  the  real,  against  the  actual,  against  the 
base  and  petty  exactitude  of  life. 

"  Yes,  my  children,  I  have  always  been  a  rebel. 
The  fierce  blood  of  the  Klepht  is  in  my  veins.  I 
am  a  Greek  —  a  true  Greek  —  in  fact  I  believe  I 
am  the  last  representative  of  the  true  Greek  race  — 
the  last  descendant  of  Pindar  and  Plato  and  Melea- 
ger  and  the  three  hundred  of  Thermopylae  —  I, 
Jean  Moreas.  My  family  is  of  Epirus.  It  is 
illustrious.  It  is  called  Papadiamantopoulos.  It 
is  a  long  name  ;  almost  ridiculous  to  little  minds.  It 
signifies  merely  diamond,  papa  indicating  that  there 
was  a  priest  among  my  ancestors,  and  poulos  being 
equivalent  to  the  Irish  O,  the  Scotch  Mac  or  the  Sla- 
vonic ski  or  vitch.  Thus  I  am  Son-of-a-Diamond- 
in-whose-Family-was-a-Priest.  My  family  emigrated 
early  in  the  century  to  the  Peloponnesus  —  Morea  — 
whence  my  name.  My  grandfather,  my  great-uncle 
fought  in  the  war  for  independence.  My  race  en- 
genders heroes.  My  father  lived  at  Athens,  at  the 
court  of  King  Otto  —  the  Bavarian  !  He  wished  to 
send  me  to  Germany  to  school.  I  revolted.  I 
wished  to  see  France.  In  my  childish  heart  was  the 
nostalgia  for  Paris.     Twice  I   ran  away  from  home 

—  at  last  I  reached  Paris.     Destiny  pointed  the  way 

—  my  star  led  me  —  to  become  the  greatest  of 
French  poets.     I  suffered  horribly.     I  knew  hunger, 


98  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

thirst  and  homelessness.  But  always  I  held  myself 
erect  —  my  hour  came.  It  is  here.  The  time  of 
youth  and  folly  is  past ;  the  time  has  come  for  a  lofty 
conception  of  art  and  life. 

"  Here  are  my  pupils,  Monsieur ;  ask  them  — 
ask  them  if  I  do  not  always  preach  morality  to 
them  —  by  word  and  example." 

He  empties  his  tumbler  of  rum  and  water  — 
gracefully,  impersonally,  as  though  he  were  present- 
ing a  rose  to  an  utter  stranger. 

"  Sing  to  us,  Master,"  the  little  poets  cry  ;  they 
do  not  ask  him  to  recite. 

And  Jean  Moreas  sings  the  famous  Sylve,  which 
is  the  fifteenth.  It  was  the  Denys  of  Halicarnassus 
who  maintained  that  the  elevation  of  tone  in  the 
acute  accent  and  the  lowering  of  tone  in  the  grave 
were  one-fifth ;  thus  the  prosodic  accent  was  musi- 
cal, especially  in  the  circumflex,  where  the  voice, 
after  having  risen  a  fifth,  descended  a  fifth  again  on 
the  same  syllable.  It  is  in  this  manner  that  Jean 
Moreas  recites  his  verses  —  with  a  Greek  prosodic 
accent.  Once  he  said :  "  The  chief  beauty  of  the 
French  language  is  the  mute  e."  You  should  hear 
the  "  noble  et  douce  beaut}  des  e  mouets  "  when  Mo- 
reas intones  a  " poeme."  His  eyeglass  glitters ; 
with  that  white,  feminine  hand  Jean  Moreas  taps 
his  breast ;  his  mustaches  rise  and  fall  in  an  ardor  of 
poesy  ;  haughtily  he  chants  :  — 


JEAN  MOREAS  AND  HIS  DISCIPLES       99 

Moi  que  la  noble  Athene  a  nourri, 
Moi  l'elu  des  Nymphes  de  la  Seine, 
Je  ne  suis  pas  un  ignorant  dont  les  Muses  ont  ri. 

L'integre  element  de  ma  voix 
Suscite  le  harpeur,  honneur  du  Vendomois ; 
Et  le  comte  Thibaut  n'eut  pas  de  plainte  plus  douce 

Que  les  lays  amoureux  qui  naissent  sous  mon  pouce. 

L'Hymne  et  la  Parthenie,  en  mon  ame  sereine, 
Seront  les  chars  vainqueurs  qui  courent  dans  1'arene  ; 

Et  je  ferai  qui  la  Chanson. 

Soupire  d'un  tant  !  courtois  son, 
Et  pareille  au  ramier  quand  la  saison  le  presse. 

Car  par  le  rite  que  je  sais, 
Sur  de  nouvelles  fleurs,  les  abeilles  de  Grece 

Butineront  un  miel  Francais. 

Jean  Moreas  gives  me  his  hand ;  there  is  some- 
thing hierarchal  in  the  gesture ;  it  is  as  though  the 
Pope  were  bestowing  a  benediction  ;  and  he  says : 
"  You  have  talent  —  you  appreciate  my  poetry  ;  you 
know  me  —  I  have  a  double  soul." 

Yes,  mes  amis,  a  double  soul !  It  was  Tartarin 
of  Tarascon  —  was  it  not  ?  —  who  had  double  mus- 
cles, but  what  are  double  muscles  to  a  double  soul ! 
Ah  !  Jean  Moreas,  Jean  Moreas,  'tis  a  pretty  fancy, 
like  Uncle  Toby's  theory  of  noses,  but  not  philo- 
sophical. 


The  New  Poetry 

Free  Verse 

DO  you  remember  the  parrot  in  the  old 
Spanish  fable  ?  He  had  been  taught  to  sit 
by  the  sun-dial  and  cry  the  hours.  It  was 
a  picturesque  arrangement  and,  so  long  as  the  sun 
shone,  answered  quite  as  well  as  a  clock.  But  at 
night,  when  the  shadows  fell,  and  by  day,  when  the 
sky  was  overcast  with  clouds,  the  parrot  sat  dumb 
by  the  blank  dial.  In  much  the  same  way  the  old 
versification  —  that  of  the  T-square  and  rule — 
served  admirably  when  all  was  clear  and  bright,  but 
in  storm  and  stress  its  inefficiency  was  conspicuous. 
A  great  deal  of  French  poetry  —  perhaps  nine- 
tenths  of  it  —  is  merely  cadenced  and  T-squared 
prose.  And  against  these  rules  there  has  always 
been  a  little  minority,  that  "brandished  the  Idea 
and  sounded  the  revolt."  The  vers  brise  of  Victor 
Hugo,  that  stormy  anthropomorph,  was  merely  a 
forerunner  of  the  vers  librey  of  to-day.  In  one  of  his 
letters  he  writes  :  "  This  famous  vers  brise  has  been 
taken  for  the  negation  of  Art ;  it  is,  on  the  contrary, 
Art's  complement.     Broken  verse  has  a  thousand 


THE  NEW  POETRY  101 

resources,  as  it  has  a  thousand  secrets.  .  .  .  Broken 
verse  is  a  trifle  harder  to  make  than  the  other  verse. 
.  .  .  There  is  a  multitude  of  rules  in  this  pretended 
violation  of  rule." 

Adolphe  Rette  might  have  written  these  words  — 
or  de  Regnier,  or  Viele-Griffin. 

A  new  art-form  should  always  be  the  expression 
of  a  new  spirit.  In  French  poetry  the  new  spirit  is 
rebellious ;  it  waves  the  "  warlike  flag  of  the  great 
Ideal"  —  to  use  Walt  Whitman's  fine  phrase.  In 
addition  it  is  emphatically  individualistic.  It  is  op- 
posed to  schools  and  systems.  It  aims  at  attaining 
the  maximum  of  personal  intensity.  It  does  not 
decry  the  well-built  and  knowingly  rhymed  poem 
—  the  chef  (Tceuvre  of  T-squared  verse.  There  is 
a  place  for  the  elaborated  sonnet.  There  are  times 
when  the  old  formal  verse  is  aptest  and  best. 
When  the  sun  shines,  who  would  not  listen  to  the 
parrot  crying  the  hours  ?  At  other  times,  however, 
the  exigencies  of  recurrent  rhyme  —  the  necessity 
of  a  certain  uniform  number  of  syllables  —  at  once 
clog  the  thought  and  hamper  the  free  expansion  of 
rhythm. 

It  was  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  who  first  proclaimed 
the  truth  that  a  long  poem  is  a  contradiction  in 
terms  ;  that  "  Paradise  Lost  "  is  merely  a  succession 
of  short  poems,  drearily  linked  by  stretches  of  neg- 
ligible prose.  I  have  often  thought  that  —  going 
a  step  further  —  one  might  prove  that  there  is  no 


102  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

perfect  poem  of  the  old  formal  sort.  The  demands 
of  rhyme  and  metre  drag  in,  every  now  and  then, 
lines  and  phrases  which  are  mere  padding.  They 
are  the  poet's  concessions  to  the  old  rules.  The 
masterpiece  may  be  defined  as  perfect  beauty  of 
sentiment  joined  to  perfect  beauty  of  form.  Words- 
worth's "Sonnet  composed  upon  Westminster 
Bridge,"  Poe's  "  Haunted  Palace,"  and  Verlaine's 
"  Le  ciel  est,  par-dessus  le  toit,"  are  notable  ex- 
amples. But  how  many  of  Wordsworth's  sonnets, 
for  instance,  are  in  the  way  of  being  masterpieces  ? 
Almost  always  this  art-form  not  only  hampered  his 
thought,  but,  as  well,  destroyed  all  its  mobility  and 
all  its  complexity.  The  day  when  that  rebel  of 
genius,  Verlaine,  turned  the  sonnet  upside  down — 
stood  it  on  its  head,  as  it  were  —  was  memorable  in 
the  history  of  art.  Only  those  who  work  in  verse 
will  appreciate  the  daring  of  this  assault  upon  the 
T-square.  Adolphe  Rette,  in  one  of  his  brilliant 
prefaces  —  since  Dryden  no  one  has  written  such 
prefaces  —  dates  the  downfall  of  the  Parnassians 
from  the  appearance  of  this  sonnet,  which  stands, 
defiant  and  eternal,  on  its  head.  "  Some  of  the 
Parnassians  were  petrified,"  he  says,  "and  the  others 
went  into  journalism." 

In  my  appreciation  of  Mallarme  I  have  said  that 
verse,  like  music,  is  an  art  which  the  technically 
ignorant  person  cannot  understand.  The  aesthetic 
satisfaction  one  derives  from  an  art  is  in  exact  pro- 


THE  NEW  POETRY  103 

portion  to  one's  knowledge  of  that  art's  technique. 
Poetry  which  has  not  a  formal  beauty  is  inconceiv- 
able. (Of  course  I  am  speaking  of  poetry  and  not 
of  jingle ;  the  man  who  rhymes  away  at  a  good  jog- 
trot of  such  evident  matters  as  fifes  and  drums, 
imperialism  or  old  wooden  buckets  that  hang  in  the 
well,  may  be  an  interesting  person  and  is  likely  to 
be  popular,  but  he  is  no  more  a  poet  than  a  sign- 
painter  is  an  artist.) 

There  is  then  no  such  thing  as  formless  verse ;  if 
it  be  formless  it  is  prose  —  and  bad  prose.  What 
is  called  free  verse  is  merely  verse  that  obeys  a 
larger  law  than  that  of  uniform  syllables  and  or- 
dered rhyme.  The  great,  brawling  strophes  of 
Whitman  are  based  upon  a  well-reasoned  law  of 
verse.  And  just  as  Poe  created  modern  French 
prose,  Whitman  re-created  modern  French  verse. 

What,  then,  is  the  law  of  the  versification  of 
"  The  Leaves  of  Grass,"  of  "  L'Archipel  en  Fleurs," 
of  "  Arethuse  "  and  of  "  Eurythmie  "  ? 

It  is  this :  That  the  essential  unity  is  the  strophe 
and  the  only  guide  for  the  poet  is  the  rhythm  — 
not  a  rhythm  learned  by  rote,  not  a  rhythm  gar- 
rotted by  a  thousand  rules  which  others  have  in- 
vented —  but  that  personal  rhythm  which  is  invet- 
erately  the  poet's  own. 

Whitman's  verse  is  free  because  it  is  personal ; 
who  else  could  have  written  : 


io4  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

The  last  scud  of  day  holds  back  for  me, 

It  flings  my  likeness  after  the  rest  and  true  as  any  on  the  shadow' d 

wilds, 
It  coaxes  me  to  the  vapor  and  the  dusk. 

The  theory  of  the  vers-libristes^  then,  is  that  the 
strophe  is  the  poetic  unity  and  that  the  rhythm 
should  be  a  personal  creation  ;  and  free  verse,  far 
from  being  lawless,  is  the  expression  of  a  new  law. 
In  its  broader  sense  the  theory  might  be  stated  in 
Rette's  words  —  tu  feras  ce  que  tu  voudras.  It  is 
the  oriflamme  of  the  anarchist  and  the  poet.  Make 
any  kind  of  verses  you  please,  my  dear  poet,  so 
long  as  they  be  beautiful  verses.  For  each  age 
there  is  a  different  beauty.  Old  forms  and  old  per- 
fections wither.  Every  age  must  curl  its  metaphors 
afresh.  Out  of  the  old  symbols  the  color  fades 
day  by  day  and  it  is  the  poet's  business  to  create 
new  ones. 


Adolphe  Rette 

"  God  gave  his  soul  brave  wings,"  said  the  old 
church  poet  —  a  verse  that  seems  to  have  been 
written  solely  that  one  might  apply  it  to  Adolphe 
Rette.  He  is  not  only  a  great  poet,  rich,  abun- 
dant, multiform ;  as  well,  he  has  a  singularly  strong 
and  attractive  personality.  He  is  sincere.  He  has 
a  fresh  and  personal  sense  of  life.     He  is 

As  one  who  hath  gone  down  into  the  springs 
Of  his  existence  and  there  bathed,  and  come, 
Regenerate,  up  into  the  world  again. 

In  many  ways  he  will  remind  you  of  the  young 
Shelley.  The  trees  are  his  boon  companions  and 
the  secrets  of  the  moon  his  knowledge.  He  knows 
the  wind  — 

II  est  le  rythme,  il  est  la  joie,  il  est  la  vie, 
II  est  la  reve  de  la  terre  — 

and  he  sings  the  ballad  of  the  wind  that  passes. 
He  has  much  of  Shelley's  love  for  humanity  — 
that  terrible  altruism  that  is  neither  to  bind  nor  to 
loose.  The  "  Similitudes "  are  his  "  Song  of 
Islam."  The  central  figure  of  this  symbolic  drama 
is  the  Rebel.  The  author  calls  him  "  le  Pauvre," 
but  he  is  not  the  haggard  creature  of  Jehan  Rictus' 

105 


io6  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

book ;  he  is  not  the  formidable  vagrom  man  of  Jean 
Richepin's  songs ;  he  is  not  the  intellectual  rebel, 
the  lover  of  the  Ideal ;  he  is  not  the  youth  of  the 
Psalms  who  scattered  firebrands,  crying,  "Am  I 
not  in  sport  ?  "  No  ;  the  rebel  of  Rette's  drama  is 
merely  a  man  who  wishes  to  live  and  love  accord- 
ing to  the  great,  natural  laws.  He  is  a  primitive. 
He  is  ignorant  and  good.  He  is  dowered  with  all 
the  frank  gifts  of  childhood.  He  has  known  noth- 
ing and  seen  nothing;  his  brain  is  haunted  neither 
by  envy,  nor  by  ambition,  nor  by  hate ;  in  the  huge 
artifice  of  civilization  he  sees  only  derision.  One 
thing  and  only  one  he  knows :  That  earth  is  rich 
enough  to  furnish  him  with  all  the  elements  neces- 
sary to  life.  The  stars  shine  upon  him ;  the  night- 
birds  call  to  him  in  fellowship ;  and  he  sets  out  on 
his  way  of  life  —  le  Pauvref  Need  I  recite  to  you 
the  stations  of  his  Calvary  ?  Knowing  nothing,  he 
dares  all ;  fearing  neither  menaces  nor  blasphemies, 
he  speaks  the  broad  democratic  word  —  the  cry  of 
joy  and  fraternity  —  and  he  journeys  on.  The 
rebel  becomes  the  martyr. 

He  sees  how  men  live  —  most  of  them  unhappy, 
slaves  of  dark  prejudices,  suffering  from  their  power- 
lessness  to  seize  and  know  the  recompense  due  to 
their  efforts  and  their  servility.  A  mad  world,  my 
masters,  a  world  of  comedies  —  the  grotesque  rival- 
ries of  castes  and  classes,  buffo  parades  of  ribboned 
rogues,  swarms  of  rhetors,  speaking  fine  words  and 


THE  NEW  POETRY  107 

saying  nothing,  scientists  who  know  nothing,  in- 
ventors of  iniquity,  who  prattle  of  progress  and 
massacre  their  fellow-men, —  in  a  word,  all  the  caval- 
cade of  human  hypocrisy,  cruelty,  cowardice,  luxury 
and  baseness. 

And  le  Pauvre,  in  his  simplicity,  made  no  at- 
tempt to  conceal  his  bitterness.  He  went  among 
the  imbeciles  who  wear  the  yoke  and  cried  aloud 
their  misery  and  folly  ;  and  he  proved  to  them  that 
they  were  hardy  and  strong,  the  only  true  men,  and 
he  bade  them  rise  and  take  their  own.  All  this  he 
said  to  them  quite  simply  and  they  heard  and  un- 
derstood and  it  was  the  beginning  of — 

He  died,  le  Pauvre,  under  the  stones  of  Pharisees 
and  his  death-cry  was  one  long  cry  of  love ;  and 
even  as  he  died  the  dawn  crept  up  —  somewhere 
the  red  cock  hailed  the  sun  — 


Rette  made  his  debut  in  letters  at  a  time  when 
French  poetry  was  the  prey  of  a  turbulent  con- 
fusion. Symbolism  existed,  though  Jean  Moreas 
had  not  yet  invented  its  name.  The  Parnassians 
had  worked  out  to  a  futile  end  their  dogmatic 
theories  and  had  sunk  into  journalism  or  anonym- 
ity. Paul  Verlaine  had  already  stood  the  sonnet 
on  its  head.  Jules  Laforgue  had  strung  his  caba- 
listic beads  of  rhyme.  Theodore  de  Banville's 
treaty  of  versification  had  been  burned  with  pomp 


108  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

and  circumstance.  Rene  Ghil  had  proclaimed  his 
grim,  little  Draconian  laws  of  verse.  Then  from 
somewhere  or  other  —  perhaps  Viele-Griffin  de- 
duced it  from  Walt  Whitman,  perhaps  Marie  Kry- 
zinska  brought  it  from  Poland  —  the  theory  of  free 
verse  appeared.  It  was  an  aesthetic  revolution  and 
the  end  of  it  is  not  yet.  Rette  was  the  first  to 
analyze  the  movement  and  determine  its  causes. 
In  an  age  that  questions  all  written  codes,  all  ethi- 
cal and  political  dogmas,  he  saw  that  free  expression 
was  as  natural  as  free  thought.  The  first  principle 
—  for  the  free,  new  man  —  is  to  acquire  an  auton- 
omous and  personal  mode  of  feeling  and  thinking ; 
and  the  second  is  that  he  should  find  an  adequate 
and  personal  fashion  of  expressing  himself.  The 
poet  must  choose  his  instrument.  If  he  have  only 
the  old  songs  to  sing,  the  old  forms  will  suit  him 
well  enough  —  odes  and  elegies,  sonnets  and  bal- 
lads, pantoums  and  villanelles ;  but  if  he  have  any- 
thing special  to  say,  he  must  find  for  himself  a  spe- 
cial and  unique  instrument.  The  only  criterion  is 
beauty. 

Another  of  Rette's  theories,  and  one  that  is  quite 
as  important,  is  that  a  volume  of  poems  should  be 
an  idealogic  suite.  "  Une  Belle  Dame  passa,"  for 
instance,  is  a  book  of  pathetic  motifs.  "  La  Foret 
Bruissante  "  is  the  book  of  that  unhappy  man,  who 
is  the  eternal  martyr. 

He    must    have    been    haunted    by    Wagner's 


THE  NEW  POETRY  109 

"  Waldweben  "  in  the  "  Siegfried,"  when  he  wrote 
this  book  of  the  rustling  forest.  It  is  a  purely  sym- 
phonic poem.  It  is  a  pantheistic  hymn  —  a  verbal 
transposition  of  the  song  of  nature.  And  yet 
through  it,  insistent  and  terrible,  there  rings  the 
cry  of  man's  suffering.     The  forest  says  : 

Je  suis  l'Ulusion,  la  Crainte,  la  Chimere, 
Je  suis  la  region  ou  regnent  les  fantomes. 

But  the  men  say  —  I  quote  from  "  L'Archipel  en 
Fleurs  "  — 

Viens  a  nous,  disaient-ils,  nous  allons  conquerir 
Les  grands  bois  ocelles  d'or  tendre  et  d' ombre  errante, 
Nous  aussi  nous  quittons  la  cite  languissante 
Ou  nos  freres  courbes  ne  savent  que  souffrir. 
La-bas  ne  regnent  pas  les  marchands  a  faux  poids, 
Ni  les  spectres  des  dieux  engloutis  au  Lethe 
Ni  les  rois  insolents  huches  sur  des  pavois, 
Ni  la  loi  qui  soumet  le  Pauvre  epouvante  — 
L'avenir  nous  promet  des  victoires  nouvclles 

Car  nous  avons  oui,  parmi  1' ombre  et  les  reves, 
La  Foret  bruissante  au  fond  de  Phorizon. 


I  have  said  that  Rette's  talent  is  abundant  and 
multiform.  His  genius  has  many  modes  and 
moods.  He  is  idyllic,  lyric,  dramatic.  He  has 
sung  some  of  the  sweetest  love-songs  of  latter  days. 
He  is  an  adventurer  in  time  and  space  —  like   the 


no  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

hero    of  one   of  his    prologues  —  and    "une   belle 
dame  passa  "  and  he  sings : 

Dame  des  lys  amoureux  et  pames, 
Dame  des  lys  languissants  et  fanes, 
Triste  aux  yeux  de  belladone  — 

Dame  d'un  reve  de  roses  royales, 

Dame  des  sombres  roses  nuptial  es, 

Frele  comme  une  madone  — 

Dame  de  del  et  de  ravissement, 
Dame  d'extase  et  de  renoncement, 
Chaste  etoile  tres-lointaine  — 

Dame  d'enfer,  ton  sourire  farouche, 
Dame  du  diable,  un  baiser  de  ta  bouche, 
C'est  le  feu  des  mauvaises  fontaines 
Et  je  brule  si  je  te  touche. 

It  is  hard  to  resist  the  temptation  to  quote  Rette's 
verses ;  even  to  transcribe  them  is  a  pleasure ;  this 
chanson  du  Pauvre : 

Thule  des  Brumes,  par  tes  greves, 
C'est  un  Pauvre  qui  chante  et  reve  : 

Un  soir  leger  bleuit  sous  les  sapins 
Pareils  a  des  Vieux  taciturnes  ; 
Void  passer,  portant  des  urnes, 
Les  vierges  noires  du  Destin. 
Quelqu'une  suit,  aux  yeux  trop  doux, 
Qui  cueillit  les  fruits  defendus 
Gardes  par  des  monstres  jaloux  : 
La  Folle  des  chemins  perdus. 


THE  NEW  POETRY  in 

C'ctait  naguere  et  c'est  cncor  c«  soir, 

Une  imperatrice  exilee. 

—  Voycz  Hotter  par  les  allees 

Des  vapeurs  vagues  d'encensoin. — 

Cheveux  ou  saignent  des  corolles, 

Yeux  trop  purs,  levres  sans  paroles, 

Gestes  d'une  qui  ne  sait  plus  : 

La  Folle  des  chemins  perdus. 

Le  soir  frissonne  sous  les  branches  — 
Elle  erre  pale,  en  robe  blanche, 
Et  les  lis  baisent  ses  pieds  nus.  .  .  . 
Yeux  trop  noirs,  6  trop  belle  Dame, 
C'est  mon  ame,  dis-je,  mon  ame  : 
La  Folle  des  chemins  perdus. 


M.  Henri  Degrpn,  an  excellent  critic,  said  once 
that  Rette  was  the  most  marvellously  endowed  poet 
of  this  generation.  I  do  not  quarrel  with  that 
statement.  Rette's  work  is  only  begun  —  his  first 
book  dates  from  1889.  I  would,  however,  supple- 
ment M.  Degron's  praise  by  saying  that  no  poet  is 
so  much  a  man  of  his  generation,  so  intimately  a 
part  of  the  intellectual  life  of  the  day.  He  is  the 
poet  and  the  soldier  of  the  Ideal : 

Je  ris,  je  suis  l'ephebe  et  le  prince  de  Mai, 
Je  cueille  des  glaieuls,  des  fraises  ou  des  levres, 
J'etoile  de  mes  vers  l'ombre  et  le  sein  pame 
De  la  Belle  par  qui,  brule  des  bonnes  fievres, 
Je  goute  le  Printemps  comme  un  fruit  parfume. 


ii2  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Puis  encor,  m'amusant  d'une  flute  assourdie, 
Je  longe  la  riviere  ou  les  roseaux  jaseurs 
M'accueillent  d'un  murmure  calin  ;  je  dedie 
Une  ode  a  la  naiade  et,  lui  jetant  des  fleurs, 
Je  la  nomme  ma  sceur  —  et  la  prends  pour  amie. 

Songe  charmant  :  ma  nuit  en  est  tout  occupee  .  .  . 

Quand  l'aurore,  pareille  a  des  brasiers  de  roses, 

Embrase  mes  rideaux  et  luit  sur  mon  epee, 

Je  m'arme  :   souleve  contre  les  sots  moroses 

Qui  radotent  de  regie  ou  de  lois  qu'on  impose, 

Je  sonne  la  revoke  et  je  brandis  l'Idee 

Pour  la  libre  bataille  et  la  libre  epopee  !  .  .  . 

He  has  touched  every  side  of  life  and  explored 
every  line  of  thought.  His  culture  is  broad  and 
deep.  He  is  indifferent  to  no  aesthetic  mode.  It 
is  true  that  he  has  been  mainly  influenced  by  Whit- 
man and  Wagner  —  these  giants  of  the  century. 
And  here  I  might  say  that  Wagner's  influence  on 
French  literature  has  been  very  great.  It  is  from 
him  that  Rette  took  the  thematic  repetitions  — 
those  Homeric  recurrences  of  motifs  and  epithets  — 
that  bind  his  poems  into  one  splendid  and  varied 
whole.  There  are  many  other  influences,  more  es- 
sentially Latin,  that  one  may  trace  in  his  work. 
He  has  carried  the  red  flag  with  Jean  Grave.  He 
has  the  Latin  love  for  joy,  beauty,  wisdom  and 
revolt. 

God  has  given  your  soul  brave  wings,  my  poet. 


Henri  de  Regnier,  Stuart  Merrill 
and  Viele-Griffin 

II  est  debout,  epee  au  flanc  et  fleur  aux  doigts  ; 
Les  chausses  de  satin  etroites  au  plus  juste 
Moulent  la  jambe  fine  et  la  cuisse  robuste 
A  la  mode  du  siecle  et  des  seconds  Valois. 

Joyeux  des  crocs  d'Amboise  et  des  gibets  de  Blois, 
Nourrisson  de  Petrone  et  client  de  Locuste  ! 
Le  court  manteau  plisse  accroit  1'ampleur  du  buste 
Et  la  cuirasse  aigue  est  en  cosse  de  pois. 

Une  fraise  a  godrons  1'engonce.      II  vous  regarde 
D'un  ceil  fourbe,  et  sa  bouche  amoureuse,  que  farde 
Un  onguent,  va  sourire  ou  mordre  ou  minauder, 

Et  deux  perles  de  lait,  Tune  a  1' autre  pareille, 
Semblent,  tirant  le  lobe  et  pretes  a  tomber, 
Une  goutte  d' amour  qui  pend  a  chaque  oreille. 

In  this  little  sonnet  one  might  fancy  that  Henri 
de  Regnier  had  sketched  his  own  portrait,  for  he  is 
a  suckling  of  Petronius  and  has  a  simpering  mouth. 
His  verse  is  pretty,  academic,  pompous,  even  dis- 
tinguished. The  poet  of  gold  and  death,  Remy  de 
Gourmont  has  called  him ;  the  poet,  one  might 
add,  of  gold  curiously  carved  and  of  death  in  a  per- 
fumed chamber  of  the  old  regime.     You  may  read 

113 


ii4  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

his  poems  by  the  hour.  They  are  pearls  cunningly 
strung  on  a  silver  thread.  They  are  daintily  and 
knowingly  made.  They  recall  all  that  is  most 
charming  in  the  anthologies  of  seventeenth  century 
verse.  They  have  a  pretty  and  disdainful  negli- 
gence for  the  natural  emotion. 

("And  still  he  smiled  and  talked  ; 
And  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by, 
He  called  them  untaught  knaves,  unmannerly, 
To  bring  a  slovenly,  unhandsome  corse 
Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility.") 

There  is  no  lyric  autobiography  in  his  poems ; 
there  is  only  a  fanciful  dilettantism  that  plays  with 
the  antique  and  accepted  emotions  and  rhymes 
again  the  faded  rhymes  of  the  old  poets.  At  once 
coquettish  and  erudite,  M.  de  Regnier  is  a  type  of 
the  poet  who  is  made.  He  is  a  poet  as  he  might 
have  been  a  courtier  or  a  gentleman-rider.  In  giv- 
ing way  to  his  feelings  —  in  crying  aloud  —  in  pal- 
tering with  those  mad  jades,  the  emotions  —  he 
would  see  a  measure  of  ill-breeding.  He  is  so 
habitually  well-bred  that  he  would  never  dream  of 
obtruding  a  slovenly,  unhandsome  corse  upon  any- 
one. And  so,  with  perfect  self-possession  and  the 
modish  society  accent,  he  sings  of  dawn,  and  sad 
waters,  of  dusk  and  scented  ladies  and  asphodels, 
of  or  and  mort.  And  with  what  an  air  he  takes  life ! 
He  and  not  Axel  might  have  said  :  "  Live  ?  Our 
lackeys  will  do  that  for  us  !  " 


THE  NEW  POETRY  115 

And  how  comes  it,  you  ask,  that  this  pretty  creat- 
ure finds  himself  among  the  vers-libristes  ?  It  is 
entirely  a  matter  of  good  manners.  He  is  far  too 
accomplished  a  man  of  the  world  to  contradict  any- 
one. When  Mallarme  wove  his  broidered  subtle- 
ties, M.  de  Regnier  set  to  work  immediately  on  the 
symbolic  loom.  It  reminds  one  of  the  courteous 
French  duke,  who  salted  his  chocolate  —  to  put  a 
blundering  guest  at  his  ease.  And  when  Villiers  de 
l'lsle  Adam  made  romantic  irony  the  mode,  M.  de 
Regnier  was  politely  romantic,  genteelly  ironic. 
Jose-Maria  de  Heredia —  the  last  of  the  great 
French-negro  writers  —  taught  him  to  love  Greece 
and  Rome  and  M.  de  Regnier  wrote  the  "  Bosquet 
de  Psyche "  and  antique  sonnets  —  and  married 
Mile,  de  Heredia.  It  was  all  sheer  courtesy.  And 
when  Walt  Whitman's  stormy  American  aestheticism 
swept  over  France,  M.  de  Regnier  loosed  a  genteel 
imitation  of  that  "  barbarous  yawp."  Will  you 
read  this  little  fragment  of"  L'Homme  et  la  Sirene," 
from  "  Arethuse  "  ? 

Mais  moi,  je  sais  la  Mer  ! 

Elle  est  douce,  aujourd'hui  sous  les  etoiles 

Qui  declinent  et  les  agres  geignant  tout  bas, 

Le  long  des  voiles ; 

Le  vent  est  tombe  et  le  navire  est  las 

Et  tous  dorment  et  tout  est  calme 

Et  celui  qui  connait  le  vent  et  la  maree 

A  predit  la  nuit  belle  a  la  nef  ancree 


u6 


FRENCH  PORTRAITS 


Et  c'est  en  chantant  qu'on  a  leve  les  rames  ; 

Car  l'homme  qui  connait  la  face  des  nuages 

A  fait  signe  en  riant  a  qui  barre  a  la  proue. 

Fou  done  qui  veille,  et  qui  dort,  sage  ? 

Et  moi  seul  je  veille  et  j'ecoute 

Debout  a  la  proue  et  moi  seul 

A  travers  mes  longes  j'y  vois  clair, 

Et  moi  seul 

Je  sais  la  mer. 

Toute  la  mer, 

Et  qu'il  y  a  des  Sirenes  sur  la  mer  ! 

So  gently  may  he,  who  sang  "  the  sea-ship  and 
the  whistling  winds,"  pipe  through  the  painted  lips 
of  a  really  well-bred  poet.  In  M.  de  Regnier  there 
is  a  future  Immortal  —  at  least,  the  fortieth  part  of 
immortality. 


At  a  time  when  French  verse  was  largely  a  crea- 
tion of  the  uitlanders  —  of  de  Heredia,  the  negroid 
Cuban,  of  Gustave  Kahn,  the  Hebrew,  of  Jean 
Moreas,  the  Greek,  and  of  many  Belgians  and  one 
stray  Algerian  —  it  was  the  good  fortune  of  Viele- 
Griffin  to  be  an  American  in  France.  He  is  a  son 
of  General  Viele,  of  New  York.  He  went  to  Paris, 
as  Poe  did  or  did  not,  go  to  Greece.  Stuart  Mer- 
rill had  preceded  him ;  had  been  captivated  by  the 
facility  with  which  French  verse  may  be  written  by 
an  accomplished  amateur ;  had  sung  of  doubt  and 
autumn  rain,  of  thyrses  and  sceptres  and  torches,  of 


THE  NEW  POETRY  117 

Parsifal  and  the  Walkyries  ;  had  made  himself  master 
of  his  poetic  instrument.  If  you  would  know  how 
blithely  Stuart  Merrill  rhymes,  read  these  verses, 
which  he  wrote,  I  believe,  for  Edgar  Saltus  :  — 

Airs  ailes  de  Lulli, 
Gavottes  et  pavanes  ! 
Iris  et  frangipanes 
Du  doux  temps  de  Lulli. 


Hautbois,  flutes  et  luths, 
Cris  et  trilles  de  rire, 
Dentelles  qu'on  dechire, 
Bassons,  flutes  et  luths  ! 

Des  voix  par  la  terrasse, 
Des  froufrous  en  la  nuit, 
Et  des  fuites  sans  bruit 
Le  long  de  la  terrasse. 

Silence  !  au  bord  de  1'eau 
L'effroi  blanc  des  toilettes 
En  les  escarpolettes 
Qui  voletent  sur  l'eau. 

Puis  au  clair  de  la  lune 
fiventails  en  emoi : 
"  M'aimes-tu  ?  —  aime-moi 
Et  la  lune  !  et  la  lune  ! 

O  doux  temps  de  Lulli  ! 
Iris  et  frangipanes  ! 
Gavottes  et  pavanes  ! 
Airs  ailes  de  Lulli  ! 


n8  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

It  is  just  what  one  might  expect  from  him  who 
wrote  French  verse  as  amateurs  play  billiards ;  and 
one  is  tempted  to  praise  him  not  only  for  his  hits, 
but  for  his  clever  misses.  In  addition  to  compos- 
ing all  kinds  of  verse  —  most  of  it  curiously  like 
real  poetry  —  Stuart  Merrill  prepared  the  way  for 
his  young  countryman.  When  Viele-Griffin  made 
his  debut  in  1886  with  "  Cueille  d'Avril"  he  was 
taken  seriously.  It  was  an  example  and  he  fol- 
lowed it.  He  has  explained  and  defended  him- 
self. He  has  justified  himself.  He  has  called 
himself  "  le  petit-fils  de  Walt  Whitman."  Now 
Viele-Griffin  has  talent,  not  large,  to  be  sure, 
but  delicate  and  sensitive.  He  has  a  suave, 
almost  feminine  preciosity.     He  lisps  in  numbers 

—  not  only  because  the  numbers  come,  but  because 
they  come  in  a  language  that  is  not  radically  his 
own.      His  French  has  a  pretty  air  of  bewilderment 

—  like  Susannah  among  the  elders.  He  plays  with 
strange  rhythms  and  odd  ornaments.  He  is  quite 
as  foreign  as  those  little,  tawny  girls  —  Vakiem  and 
Tarninch  and  Sariem  —  who  startled  Paris  with  the 
unusual  music  of  Javanese  hammers,  banging  the 
copper  vases.  And  yet  Viele-Griffin,  for  all  his  odd 
noises,  is  the  calmest  of  poets.  Life  is  pleasant; 
why  should  one  shout  ?  Love  is  sweet  —  and  he 
drapes  the  calm  child  in  a  toga  of  modest  strophes. 
All's  for  the  best  in  this  best  of  all  worlds  —  and  he 
lisps  a    paean  to  the  cheerful  days.     It  is    the  op- 


Stuart  Merrill 


THE  NEW  POETRY  119 

timism  —  crass,  monstrous,  babbling  —  of  Pippa, 
who  passed  and  piped,  "  God's  in  his  heaven,  all's 
right  with  the  world."  And,  oh  !  if  you  would  know 
how  candied  life  is,  give  your  days  and  nights  to 
this  happy  optimist.  Dear  Lord  !  does  not  the  dew 
fall  soothingly  on  the  grass  ?  The  pretty  sun  gilds 
the  hawthorn  hedge.  There  flies  a  sparrow,  twit- 
tering "  all's  right  with  the  world."  Twilight  comes, 
with  melancholy  hints  and  instigations,  and  the  poet 
whispers, 

Pleurer  est  doux  par-dessus  toute  chose  ; 

and  when  night  falls,  he  dries  his  pensive  tears  and 
cries : 

II  n'est  pas  de  nuit  sous  les  astres, 
Et  toute  l'ombre  est  en  toi. 

Since  Kant  we  are  all  of  us  a  trifle  suspicious  of 
the  objective  existence  of  the  world.  For  Viele- 
Griffin  nature  is  an  allegory  of  his  soul  —  May  is, 
as  it  were,  a  facet  of  his  heart.  And  so  he  cele- 
brates himself  in  nature.  It  is  this  personal  note  — 
veiled  and  faint  as  it  is  —  that  separates  his  poetry 
from  the  purely  artificial  verse  of  de  Regnier. 
Neither  in  his  sensitive  idealism  nor  in  his  opti- 
mism —  at  once  smug  and  prudish  —  is  there  any- 
thing new  to  French  poetry.  Viele-Grifrin's  air  of 
originality  comes,  I  think,  from  his  lisp  —  his  aloof- 
ness to  the  national  tradition,  his  American  habit  of 
mind.     This   little  grandson  of  Walt  Whitman  is 


no  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

far  more  akin  to  Longfellow  —  he  strikes  the  natty 
Longfellow  attitude  and  lisps  commonplaces  with 
all  the  old  professor's  solemnity.  Viele-Griffin  is  a 
calm  poet  with  theories  —  it  is  a  contradiction  in 
terms.  I  believe,  however,  that  he  brought  into 
French  versification  the  great  Whitman  strophe  and 
made  possible  the  new  movement  of  which  Rette 
is  the  splendid  climax  —  all  of  which  should  be  ac- 
counted to  him  for  righteousness. 


Emmanuel   Signoret   and  Albert 
Samain 

If  to  think  that  one  has  talent  is  to  have  it,  Sig- 
noret is  the  happiest  of  poets.  He  has  made  autol- 
atry  a  religion.  A  few  years  ago  he  almost  proved 
the  truth  of  Disraeli's  saying  that  youth  is  genius. 
He  was  twenty,  and  he  published  the  "  Vers  Dores." 
To  and  fro  he  paced  the  gardens  of  Versailles  —  a 
slim,  gilt  figure  of  a  poet,  with  shining  eyes  and 
feathery  hair  —  and  he  said  :  "  Youth  —  I  am 
twenty  —  and  I  am  in  full  possession  of  my  soul. 
The  light  of  my  youth  and  my  genius  renews  the 
face  of  the  world.  Truly  the  universe  is  too  beau- 
tiful. The  forests  are  too  profound.  The  moun- 
tains are  immeasurable.  The  sweetness  of  the  sea 
is  ineffable  "  ;  and  he  added :  "  I  palpitate  with  all 
the  emotion  of  the  ages,  I  incorporate  in  myself  all 
human  thought.  My  heart  sings.  I  sing  the 
glory  of  love  and  my  own  glory.     I  sing 

Du  feu  de  deux  couchants  je  fis  une  aube  eclore, 
Rallumant  notre  sang  eteint,  nos  yeux  ternis : 
Sur  mes  conques  d'azur  je  viens  dans  cette  aurore 
Ceint  d'oliviers  d' Athene  et  de  Gethsemani. 

L' eclat  des  ostensoirs  s'unit  dans  mes  prunelles 

Au  resplendissement  du  casque  de  PaJlas  !  "  ^       ^0k 

121 

r 


122  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Thus  with  suave  hands  Signoret  plucks  for  him- 
self the  laurel. 

"  Listen,"  he  said  again,  "  to  these  verses  : 

La  terre  merveilleuse  ou  ta  proue  aspira 
Et  que  tu  ne  conquis  qu'en  chantant  dans  les  voiles, 
Nous  l'avons  fait  surgir  des  mers  que  consacra 
L'immersion  d'un  flot  magnifique  d'etoiles. 

Do  you  not  hear  in  them  the  noise  of  the  mighty 
winds  that  drove  Vasco  da  Gama  sea-ward  ?  Would 
you  not  say  that  in  them  sang  the  soul  of  all  mari- 
ners  f 

And  I  said :  "My  poet,  you  have  not  bowed  the 

knee   to   the  misbegotten,    strange    new    Gods    of 

_ » ** 
song. 

And  he  said :  "  The  great  forms  of  Racine,  Che- 

nier  and  Lamartine  are  too  vast  for  the  little  souls 

of  to-day.     The  little,  barbarous  writers  employ  frail 

and  barbaric  rhythms.     I   have  come   bearing  the 

proud  and  ample  harmonies  of  old ;  I  speak  in  the 

great  rich  accent  of  the  masters.     I  bear  the  lyre. 

•Once  I  stood  and  listened  to  the  others  —  to  Ver- 

laine  and  Viele-Griffin  and  Moreas ;  but  my  heart 

beat   too    high    and    broke    their  rhythms.     I   saw 

Regnier   coquetting  with  his  pallid  beliefs.     I   saw 

Rette  rushing  like  a  madman  toward  what  vacillating 

dawns  !     I  heard  Maeterlinck  repeat  the  indecisive 

words  that  are  stammered  it  may  be  on  the  other 

side  of  life.      I  raised  my  lyre  and  sang.     I  chanted 


mmainiiei  $>  ignore 


THE  NEW  POETRY  123 

the  new  light  for  which  Pascal  died,  for  which  Spi- 
noza suffered  humbly  and  which  dazzled  Nietzsche 
on  some  fabulous  road  to  Damascus.  In  a  word, 
I  have  understood  that  it  is  beautiful  to  be  a  man, 
since  in  his  own  breast  man  bears  the  destinies  of 
the  universe  and  can  collaborate  with  these  destinies. 
I  have  chanted  the  hymn  of  joy." 

And  so  in  words  that  glisten  and  rustle  the  young 
poet  proclaimed  his  mission.  It  is  easy  to  laugh, 
mes  amis ;  always  it  is  easy  to  laugh  —  Zeuxis  died 
of  laughter  upon  seeing  the  picture  of  an  old  woman, 
and  Philemon  (unless  Valerius  belies  him)  laughed 
himself  to  death  at  the  spectacle  of  an  ass  eating 
figs  —  and  the  young  poet  has  always  been  fair  game 
for  the  average,  sceptical  person.  (The  youngster 
talks  of  tears  and  white  feet,  of  golden  lyres  and 
love  and  his  soul  —  was  there  ever  anything  more 
ridiculous  !  Never  —  since  zygomatic  muscles  were 
first  stretched.  He  acknowledges  he  is  a  poet  — 
upon  my  word  it  is  funnier  than  seeing  a  stout 
gentleman  sit  down  where  there  is  no  chair.) 

Marcel  Schwob  in  one  of  his  accomplished  essays 
points  out  that  laughter  is  dying  out  in  the  world ; 
life  is  not  nearly  so  laughable  as  it  was ;  the 
humor  has  gone  out  of  bent  pins ;  the  dia- 
logue which  iEsop  imagined  between  a  fox  and  a 
player's  mask  is  not  comic  now ;  there  is  only 
gloom  in  Shakspere's  clowneries  and  King  Jamie's 
puns ;  but  hilarious  and  eternal  rings  the  laughter 


124  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

round  the  young  poet.  What  droll  fun  the  smart 
journalist  pokes  at  him  !  How  the  lean  professor 
—  he  with  the  dandruff  on  his  coat-collar  —  chuckles 
at  him  !  Next  to  the  martyr  the  work-a-day  world 
finds  nothing  quite  so  ridiculous  as  the  young  poet, 
who  takes  his  business  of  being  a  poet  with  unwink- 
ing seriousness.  I  do  not  know  that  a  little  careless 
laughter  does  the  young  poet  any  harm.  If  he  have 
the  right  stuff  in  him  neither  squibs  nor  paper  bul- 
lets will  turn  him  from  his  humor.  My  young 
poet,  Signoret,  went  on  his  way  quite  unabashed  by 
the  cackle  of  those  inclined  to  Philistinism.  A  few 
years  later,  when  he  had  attained  the  dignity  of 
twenty-four,  he  published  "  Daphne."  In  this  book 
he  forsook  the  reactionary  heroic  verse  for  the  free 
Alexandrine. 

And  he  said  :  "  You  are  interested  in  the  develop- 
ment of  my  artistic  thought  ?  Then,  this  suite  of 
twelve  poems  will  startle  you  —  like  twelve  white 
Nymphs,  rushing  swiftly  from  secret  forests  and 
bounding — their  tresses  in  the  wind  —  toward  the 
harmonious  horizon.  You  will  remember  that  in 
my  '  Vers  Dores '  I  expressed  the  heroic  period  of 
the  Idea.  Here  the  Idea  has  attained  its  nuptial 
period.  The  colors  are  softened.  The  forms  have 
taken  on  more  indecision.  For  the  magnificent 
affirmation  of  my  personality,  I  have  substituted 
the  voluptuous  plaints  of  desire.  Often  indeed  I 
have  kept  silent  and  let  things  themselves  speak. 


THE  NEW  POETRY  125 

I  have  assisted  at  the  birth  of  spring  in  the  antique 
park  of  Versailles.  New  blood  ran  in  my  joyous 
veins.  The  world  dwelt  in  me.  My  soul  was 
cradled  in  the  harmony  of  my  verses.  The  wood- 
lands gave  back  to  me  my  natal  splendor : 

Et  puis  j'ai  rencontre  la  Foret  vagabonde 

Qui,  pour  ressusciter  le  vieux  dieu  que  je  fus, 

M'a  tendi   ses  deux  seins  qui  s'enflaient  comme  une  onde 

Et  m'a  mordu  le  cou,  dans  un  rire  confus  ! 

"  To  celebrate  these  amorous  solemnities  I 
thought  it  my  duty  to  employ  only  Alexandrine 
verse,  but  a  free  Alexandrine,  supple,  varying, 
flexile.  Careful  as  usual  of  the  quality  and  eclat  of 
my  rhymes,  I  have  not  used  all  the  liberties  which 
lesser  poets  take.  Mallarme  wished  that  the  Alex- 
andrine should  be  reserved  exclusively  for  great  cir- 
cumstances. But  what  is  there  that  merits  the 
honors  of  this  king-verse  more  than  the  august 
coming  of  spring,  the  universal  song  of  nature,  the 
pulsations  of  happiness  in  the  heart  of  the  flowers, 
the  heart  of  the  streams,  the  heart  of  men  and  the 
heart  of  the  turtle-doves  ?  " 

And  piously  as  one  tells  his  beads,  the  young 
poet  chanted : 

Les  troupeaux,  sur  les  monts,  broutent  la  nuit  des  herbes, 
La  hache  luit  aux  feux  d'astres  pour  egorger 
Les  noirs  sapins  noyes  de  seve  ;  et  sur  tes  gerbes 
Voltige,  6  blanc  jasmin,  1'etoile  du  berger  ! 


j  26  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

L'oiseau  vole  vers  1'astre  ;  et  la  grotte  plaintive 
Gronde.      La  fleur  se  tresse  aux  gemmes  sur  nos  mats ! 
Ma  bien-aimee,  abandonnons  la  sombre  rive, 
Voguons  chercher  la  vague  meme  ou  tu  m'aimas  ! 

Sur  la  face  du  lac  pudique  et  de  l'etoile 
Morte  d' amour,  monte  un  effroi  delicieux, 
Et  la  face  du  lac,  de  ses  jasmins  se  voile  !  — 

—  Elle  chanta  : 

*'  Le  vin  d'amour  coule  a  mes  yeux. 

—  £puise  aussi  ma  levre  ou  ruisselle  la  seve 
De  toute  fleur,  et  dors  sur  mon  nocturne  sein  : 
Voici  l'eternite  des  astres  qui  se  leve, 

O  roi  sauvage,  egale  aux  astres  tes  desseins. 

Nous  ressusciterons  dans  le  charme  de  1'heure 

Que  tu  m'as  menagee  au  bercement  des  nuits. 

Tu  passes  sur  ta  barque  et  ta  lueur  demeure 

Au  front  des  peuples  !     Te  penchant  au  bleu  des  puits, 

Poete,  en  tes  seaux  d'or,  tu  puises  la  sagesse  !  " 
Je  repondis  ;  —  "  Les  hameaux  verts  sont  assoupis, 
De  la  treille  jaillit  la  grappe  avec  largesse, 
Aux  gorges  la  lavande  effeuille  ses  epis  !  " 

Pensive,  elle  chanta :   "Du  vieux  feu  de  la  terre, 
Je  t'aime  !     Oh  !  par  les  fleurs  des  jasmins  !  baise  aussi 
Mes  seins  frais,  jusqu'a  la  jeune  heure  solitaire 
Ou  le  disque  d'or  neuf  du  soleil  s'epaissit  !*' 

And  it  is  all  very  young,  you  say ;  shining 
rhetoric  and  ringing  cymbals  —  merely  youth  and 
youth's  fervor  and  fluency  ?  I  shall  not  disagree 
with  you,  but  even  for  the  feu  ct  artifice  of  youth 


THE  NEW  POETRY  127 

there  is  room  in  literature.  Were  it  not  that 
Signoret  were  young  his  books  would  not  interest 
me  very  much.  I  should  have  glanced  them  over 
in  the  mood  of  Heine's  hero  who  cried  (thrice), 
"Tirily,  tirily,  tirily,"  and,  having  tirilied,  spun 
round  on  his  heel  and  went  his  way.  But  youth 
—  especially  when  it  is  joined  to  profound,  austere 
and  majestic  autolatry  —  is  infinite  in  its  possibilities. 


From  this  sketch  of  the  new  poetry  in  France  I 
have  omitted  many  poets  —  Saint- Pol-Roux-le-Mag- 
nifique ;  Pierre  Quillard  of  the  violet  moons  and 
brief  roses;  Herold,  who  loves  jewelled  queens  and 
faded  saints  in  free  verse ;  Tailhade,  the  rhetor ; 
Bataille  and  Charbonnel,  the  monk  ;  Fontainas  and 
many  others  —  not  because  they  have  not  written 
beautiful  poems,  but  solely  because  it  was  my  pur- 
pose to  select  certain  typical  poets.  It  would  be 
impossible,  however,  to  omit  Albert  Samain,  who 
represents  the  Verlainian  spirit  in  literature.  His 
early  work  is  Parnassian.  One  might  say  of  it  — 
for  it  is  pleasant,  now  and  then,  to  drive  three  adjec- 
tives tandem  —  that  it  is  grandiloquent,  beautiful, 
empty.  His  later  work,  however,  is  very  simple. 
It  is  sincere.  It  is  exquisitely  delicate,  full  of  hints 
and  veiled  suggestions.  And,  above  all,  it  has  that 
haunting,  indecisive  music  of  which  Verlaine  was 
the  impeccable  master.     In  these,  his  latter,  better 


128  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

days  Samain  has  taken  Verlaine's  advice  and 
"  wrung  the  neck  of  eloquence,"  and  he  has  become 
a  poet  truly  Verlainian.  He  has  described  his 
poetic  creed  in  these  verses,  wherein   he  dreams : 

De  vers  blonds  ou  le  sens  fluide  se  delie 
Comme  sous  l'eau  la  chevelure  d'Ophelie, 

De  vers  silencieux,  et  sans  rythme  et  sans  trame, 
Ou  la  rime  sans  bruit  glisse  comme  une  rame, 

De  vers  d'une  ancienne  etoffe  extenuee, 
Impalpable  comme  le  son  et  la  nuee, 

De  vers  de  soirs  d'automne  ensorcelant  les  heures 
Au  rite  feminin  des  syllabes  mineures, 

De  vers  de  soirs  d' amours  enerves  de  verveine, 
Ou  1'ame  sente,  exquise,  une  caresse  a  peine. 

Notwithstanding  his  deep  influence  on  contempo- 
rary poetry,  Verlaine  left  few  disciples.  It  is  not 
unpleasant  to  see  the  old  mastery  waken  again  in 
such  a  sonnet  as  this : 

Lentement,  dou cement,  de  peur  qu'elle  se  brise, 
Prendre  une  ame ;  ecouter  ses  plus  secrets  aveux, 
En  silence,  comme  on  caresse  des  cheveux  ; 
Atteindre  a  la  douceur  fluide  de  la  brise ; 

Dans  l'ombre,  un  soir  d'orage,  ou  la  chair  s'electrise, 
Promener  des  doigts  d'or  sur  le  clavier  nerveux ; 
Baisser  l'eclat  des  voix  ;  calmer  l'ardeur  des  feux  ; 
Exalter  la  couleur  rose  a  la  couleur  grise. 


THE  NEW  POETRY  129 

Essayer  des  accords  de  mots  mysterieux 

Doux  comme  le  baiser  de  la  paupiere  aux  yeux ; 

Faire  ondoyer  des  chairs  d'or  pale  dans  des  brumes, 

Et,  dans  l'ame  que  gonfle  un  immense  soupir, 

Laisser,  en  s'en  allant,  comme  le  souvenir 

D'un  grand  cygne  de  neige  aux  longues,  longues  plumes. 


The  Paganism  of  Pierre 
Louys 

DO  you  remember  the  notable  discussion  in 
Voltaire's  novel  ? 
"  What  was  this  world  made  for  anyway  ?  " 
Candide  asks  bitterly,  and  out  of  the  depth  of 
wisdom  Martin  replies:  "  Pour  nous  fair e  enrager." 
Life  is  at  once  too  dirty  and  too  sad.  Even  war 
can  hardly  make  it  splendid.  More  than  one  young 
thinker  —  for  after  all  only  young  men  have  that 
fresh  view  of  life  which  is  thought  —  has  been  of 
Martin's  way  of  thinking.  Life  is  not  pretty.  In 
certain  ages  it  has  seemed  especially  sullied  and  sin- 
ister. "  Soldiers  !  let  us  fight,  conquer  and  die  for 
the  safety  of  our  railway  systems  !  "  does  not  strenu- 
ously appeal  to  the  young  imagination.  At  such 
times  the  mind  turns  back,  lightly  as  a  bird,  to  the 
old  ideals  —  quite  as  sterile,  perhaps,  quite  as  sad 
and  dirty,  it  may  be,  as  the  ideals  of  to-day,  but 
beautiful  because  they  are  alien  and  afar  and  impos- 
sible. Always  there  have  been  those  for  whom 
Greece  was  an  ivory  tower.  Pierre  Louys  is  not 
the  first  young  man  to  whom  Greek  life  was  a 
mirage ;  but  in  this  century  he  was  the  first  who  set 

130 


THE  PAGANISM  OF  PIERRE  LOUYS     131 

himself  the  task  of  making  the  dream  come  true. 
I  would  not  have  you  think  that  he  prays  to  the 
old  gods.  He  does  not  take  symbols  for  realities. 
When  he  exalts  Zeus  and  Apollo  and  Aphrodite  he 
is  celebrating  only  the  antique  effigies  of  Power  and 
Art  and  Beauty.  Yet  he  is  at  once  the  apologist 
and  apostle  of  the  antique  modes  of  life.  He  would 
fain  be  a  Greek  of  Athens  —  walking  the  gas-lit 
streets  of  Paris,  he  dreams  of  the  divine  Plato. 
Athens,  or  Alexandria  ?  The  Greece  he  loves  is 
not  the  amaranthine  land,  wherein  the  stately  white 
figures  passed,  talking  of  beauty  and  the  soul.  It 
is  the  later  Greece  of  the  "  free  morality."  Indeed, 
M.  Louys  has  fled  thither  to  escape  Calvin.  He 
has  taken  refuge  there  from  the  law  of  Geneva. 

Once  he  wrote :  "  The  learned  Prodicos  of  Ceos, 
who  flourished  toward  the  end  of  the  fifth  century 
B.C.,  is  the  author  of  the  celebrated  apologue,  which 
Saint  Basil  recommended  to  the  meditations  of 
Christians :  f  Heracles,  between  Virtue  and  Pleas- 
ure.' We  know  that  Heracles  chose  the  former, 
which  permitted  him  to  accomplish  a  certain  num- 
ber of  crimes  against  the  Hinds,  the  Amazons,  the 
Apples  of  Gold  and  the  Giants.  Had  Prodicos 
stopped  there  he  had  merely  written  a  fable  of 
simple  symbolism  ;  but  he  was  a  good  philosopher, 
and  his  collection  of  tales  c  The  Hours,'  divided 
into  three  parts,  presents  the  moral  truths  under 
the  diverse  aspects  they  wear  according  to  the  three 


132  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

ages  of  life.  To  little  children  he  gave,  as  an  ex- 
ample, the  austere  choice  of  Heracles;  without 
doubt  to  the  young  he  counselled  the  voluptuous 
choice  of  Paris ;  and  I  fancy  that  to  men  of  ripe 
years  he  talked  in  this  fashion : 

"  Odysseus,  wandering  one  day  in  the  chase 
among  the  foot-hills  of  Delphos,  met  two  virgins, 
hand  in  hand.  One  had  violet-colored  hair  and 
transparent  eyes  and  grave  lips,  and  she  said :  c  I  am 
Arete.'  The  other  had  faint  eyelids  and  delicate 
hands  and  tender  breasts ;  she  said  to  him :  c  I  am 
Tryphe.'  And  both  said  :  *  Choose  between  us  ! ' 
But  the  subtle  Odysseus  wisely  answered :  'How 
can  I  choose  ?  You  are  inseparable.  One  of  you 
without  the  other  is  but  a  sterile  shade.  Even  as 
sincere  virtue  may  not  deprive  itself  of  the  eternal 
joys  of  voluptuousness,  so  love  itself  is  weak  with- 
out a  certain  grandeur  of  soul.  I  will  follow  both 
of  you.  Show  me  the  way.'  No  sooner  had  he 
spoken  than  the  two  figures  melted  into  one,  and 
Odysseus  knew  that  he  had  spoken  to  the  great 
goddess  Aphrodite." 

In  this  fable  of  a  fable  Pierre  Louys  gives  you  a 
large  measure  of  his  thought.  He  is  a  neo-pagan, 
who  loves  pleasure,  he  avers,  that  he  may  know 
virtue.  He  repeats  the  old  Greek  saying  that  love 
is  the  most  virtuous  of  all  sentiments,  and  he  means 
love  in  all  its  moods  and  tenses.  He  dreams  of  a 
world  where  the  passions  may  walk  in  beautiful  un- 


THE  PAGANISM  OF  PIERRE  LOUYS     133 

conscious  nudity.  "  Among  certain  barbarous 
peoples,"  said  the  astounded  Herodotus,  "it  is  con- 
sidered shameful  to  go  naked."  Louys  would 
gladly  recapture  this  fresh,  sublime  wonder  of  the 
historian.  He  would  strip  off  the  Genevan  robe  in 
which  modern  society  hides  itself.  He  longs  for  the 
frank  love  that  dwelt  unabashed  under  the  blithe  old 
skies,  before  Judaism  had  invented  a  new  sin  and 
a  new  virtue.  He  says  :  "  Modern  morality  is  mis- 
taken ;  love  and  nudity  are  proper  objects  of  con- 
templation." He  traces  the  modern  invasion  of 
hideousness  to  the  protestant  cult  that  made  the 
body  disgraceful  and  love  a  shameful  thing,  to  be 
hid  and  denied.  His  neo-paganism  is  a  sort  of 
faith  at  once  materialistic  and  mystic ;  it  is  a  re- 
newal of  the  old  carnal  religion  on  the  pretext  of 
adoring  the  divine  beauty. 

It  is  impossible  to  apply  the  modern  ethical  yard- 
stick to  the  principles  of  Greek  morality.  The 
Greeks  were  scruple-ridden  in  many  ways  we  know 
not  of.  It  is  not  at  all  true  that  adogmatism  was 
characteristic  of  their  religion.  There  was  a  notable 
heresy  trial,  the  account  of  which  is  still  read  in  the 
schools.  Theoretically  the  Greek  was  free  to  be- 
lieve what  he  pleased  —  in  what  gods  and  mira- 
cles he  pleased  —  provided  only  he  profaned  no 
other  man's  gods  and  miracles.  He  might  go  his 
own  way  to  the  mysteries  of  Eleusinia,  but  it  was 
not  well  for  him  to  sneer  at  the  Kabeiroi  of  Samo- 


i34  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

thrace ;  as  in  this  day  one  may  be  Baptist  or  Meth- 
odist, but  there  is  a  point  beyond  which  differences 
of  opinion  are  not  tolerated.  I  doubt  very  much, 
however,  if  Louys  has  a  very  correct  idea  of  Athe- 
nian or  even  Alexandrian  life.  It  used  to  be  a 
scholastic  habit  to  divide  mankind  into  two  divi- 
sions —  as  Nominalists  and  Realists  —  and  following 
the  old  habit  I  am  inclined  to  divide  mankind  into 
Men  and  Puritans.  In  Greece  there  was  almost  the 
same  proportion  of  Puritans  that  there  is  in  modern 
France.  In  antique  literature  we  read  a  great  deal 
of  the  Aspasias  and  Nicoreses  who  dyed  yellow  their 
hair,  and  in  other  respects  acted  like  the  fashionable 
or  fallen  women  of  the  Dumasfilial  drama.  There 
is  gossip  about  Pericles  and  there  is  scandal  about 
Ctesion.  But  is  one  to  judge  French  life  by  the 
scandalous  plays  and  gossipy  memoirs  of  the  hour  ? 
How  much  of  French  society  does  "  La  Dame  aux 
Camelias  "  represent  ?  And  how  much  "  Nana  "  ? 
Fiction  like  history  records  only  the  exceptional.  It 
preserves  the  wicked,  witty  women  —  the  few !  —  and 
neglects  the  usual  woman.  When  a  good  woman 
is  dead  she  is  dead  forever.  It  is  only  by  her  vices 
that  a  woman  can  cheat  oblivion.  Bacchis  and 
Plangon  live ;  Phano  is  immortal ;  but,  merely  be- 
cause there  is  no  trace  in  scandalous  history  of  their 
virtuous  contemporaries,  it  is  absurd  to  assume  that 
there  was  no  virtue  in  Athens.  Indeed  the  very 
emphasis  laid  upon  the  free  amours  of  the  Athenians 


THE  PAGANISM  OF  PIERRE  LOUYS     135 

is  evidence  enough  that  they  were  exceptional.  So 
usual  must  have  been  the  puritanic  conduct  of  life 
in  Greece  that  those  who  stepped  outside  it  became 
notable  by  that  one  act.  If  Pierre  Louys  and  Rene 
Emery  and  Marcel  Balilliat  could  renew  Greek  life 
to-day,  I  believe  they  would  find  themselves  con- 
fronted with  almost  all  the  problems  of  the  hour  — 
with  puritanism  and  imperialism,  proletarianism  and 
theological  bitterness.  They  would  find  quite  as 
much  intolerance  and  quite  as  little  love  for  the 
Beautiful.  There  was  more  than  one  Athenian 
Calvin.  There  was  a  Thuringian  monk  before 
Luther. 

In  "  Aphrodite,"  his  historical  romance  of  Alex- 
andrian life,  Pierre  Louys  has  written  a  beautiful 
book  —  a  book  frankly  non-moral,  a  paean  of  the 
flesh,  splendidly  eloquent.  It  is  a  corrupt  book. 
Its  corruption  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  is  false  to  the 
very  ideals  that  thunder  in  the  index.  It  proclaims 
the  essential  purity  of  nudity  —  and  tricks  out  its 
girls  in  all  the  shamelessness  of  sought  and  subtle 
apparel ;  it  proclaims  the  frank  nobility  of  human 
love  and  then  permits  you  to  peer  at  it  sneakingly 
through  the  spy-hole  of  a  curtain.  The  apostle  of 
paganism  sees  only  in  the  antique  life  la  grande  sen- 
sualite  and  forgets  that  it  had  ideals  both  of  mysti- 
cism and  beauty.  Socrates  loved  the  yellow-haired 
Myrto,  but  he  dreamed  as  well  of  a  superior  world 
made  of  jasper,  gold  and  porphyry  —  as  you  may 


136  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

read  in  the  dialogue.  Greek  life  was  not  so  simple 
as  Pierre  Louys  would  have  you  believe.  It  was 
not  alone  love,  nor  was  love  only  the  peopling  of 
the  world. 

In  his  "  Lectures  Antiques "  he  has  preserved 
more  of  the  Greek  spirit  —  in  these  little  "  Songs 
of  Bilitis "  that  tricked  the  heavy  German  pro- 
fessors into  the  belief  that  a  lost  author  had  been 
recovered  from  the  years.  Of  his  nine  volumes  of 
Greek  paraphrases  and  translations,  few  need  trouble 
the  incurious  reader.  The  "  Aphrodite  "  and  the 
"  Chansons  de  Bilitis  "  will  suffice  even  the  curious 
student.  In  his  last  book  he  has  tried  to  find  in 
Seville  la  liberte  morale  of  Athens  ;  and  so  it  may  be 
after  all  that  his  neo-paganism  is  little  more  than  an 
attempt  to  draw  aside  that  veil  which  is  not  the  veil 
of  Isis. 


Jean  Richepin  and  the 
Vagrom  Man 

JEAN  RICHEPIN  was  born  (he  says)  at 
Medeah,  in  Algeria,  in  1850.  His  father  was  a 
French  army  surgeon  of  good  family.  His  early 
years,  like  those  of  Sterne,  were  passed  in  the  barracks 
or  in  the  train  of  the  wandering  army.  When  he 
was  about  ten  years  old  he  was  placed  in  the  Ecole 
Normale,  where  he  remained  until  the  breaking  out 
of  the  war.  He  joined  a  company  of  franc s-tireurs 
and  fought  until  there  was  an  end  of  fighting.  Then 
he  drifted  to  Montmartre.  This  was  the  epoch  of 
the  grande  Botieme.  Richepin,  brooding  in  the 
Cabaret  des  Assassins,  was  as  poor  as  poet  well  can 
be.  He  wrote  fugitively  for  the  newspapers.  Be- 
tween times  he  elaborated  his  marvellous  "  Chanson 
des  Gueux."  In  summer  he  lived  the  life  he  had 
sung —  he  was  a  sailor,  a  strolling  player,  a  "  strong 
man  "  at  suburban  fairs.  At  this  time  —  I  speak 
of  the  early  seventies  —  the  Parnassian  spirit  was 
beginning  to  be  dominant  in  French  verse.  Jean 
Richepin  did  not  wholly  escape  its  influence ;  but 
he  was  more  than  a  rhetor,  more  than  a  juggler  of 
words ;    he   was    not   one    to    sit   docilely   in   any 

137 


138  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

"school"  of  poetry.  He  went  his  own  way, 
stormy,  independent,  audacious.  He  was  the 
"strong  man"  of  the  fair. 


The  trouble  with  the  arts  to-day  is  that  they  are 
anaemic.  They  are  deficient  in  red  blood  corpuscles. 
This  is  true  of  literature  ;  it  is  true  of  music,  paint- 
ing, sculpture,  the  drama  —  all  the  arts.  George 
Moore  used  to  have  a  phrase  for  it :  "  Art  to-day," 
he  would  say,  "  lacks  guts."  And  yet  the  world  is 
ready  enough  to  welcome  the  "  strong  man  "  ;  it 
will  welcome  a  tenth-rate  poet  of  windlasses  and 
barrack-room  balladry,  if  he  have  the  lusty  air;  it 
will  accept  the  tawdriest  art  if  it  have  —  I  repeat 
George  Moore's  gruff  Saxon  phrase  —  "guts." 
Were  I  to  use  my  own  phrase  I  should  say  that 
what  we  all  lack  is  the  Rabelaisian  spirit.  Perhaps 
it  is  not  quite  easy  to  define  this  spirit  in  exact 
terms  —  unless  one  should  use  Luther's  alliterative 
phrase  —  but  your  idea  of  it  is  clear  enough.  In 
every  age  when  art  has  a  strong  accent,  when  it  dis- 
plays vigor,  inventive  force,  power  of  hand,  origi- 
nality, you  find  something  of  this  Rabelaisian  spirit. 
It  sparkles  in  Aristophanes.  It  flaunts  itself  mag- 
nificently across  the  Renascence.  It  laughs  with 
you  in  the  mirth  of  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims,  just  as 
it  beckons  you  from  the  insolent  canvas  of  Titian. 
Shakspere   had  it,  and  his  roaring  contemporaries. 


Jean  Richepin 


RICHEPIN  AND  THE  VAGROM  MAN    139 

It  sat  with  Jan  Steen  in  his  cabaret  among  blowsy 
girls  and  ragged  lads.  It  was  conspicuous  in 
Goethe's  life  and  letters,  as  in  Fielding's  and  Wag- 
ner's, Rubens's  and  Balzac's. 

Wherever  and  whenever  art  and  letters  attain 
virility,  vitality,  force  of  hand,  strength  of  creation, 
there  you  find  this  Rabelaisian  spirit,  which  is,  in- 
deed, the  spirit  of  the  natural,  wholesome  man,  who 
loves  and  laughs,  labors  and  prays  and  is  unashamed. 

There  is  just  a  trifle  more  to  this  than  was  hinted 
in  Martin  Luther's  phrase ;  "  Wine,  woman  and 
song,"  he  wrote,  and  after  he  had  written  the  words 
the  devil  appeared  to  him.  Martin  Luther  threw 
his  ink  bottle  at  the  devil  (the  stain  is  to  be  seen 
on  a  wall  in  Eisenach  to  this  day)  and  routed  him 
gloriously.  This  was  well  done  of  Martin.  It 
gives  us  reason  to  believe  that  he  would  not  have 
objected  to  an  emendation  of  his  phrase,  which 
should  make  it  read :  "  Wine,  woman,  song  and 
religious  fervor."  And  this  perhaps  is  —  as  near  as 
one  can  get  it  —  that  state  of  the  natural  man  which 
is  described  as  Rabelaisian. 

It  would  seem  that  the  natural  man  loves  all  that 
tends  to  expand  his  emotions  and  that  his  art  is 
merely  the  expression  of  his  joy  in  expansive  life. 
Whenever  life  has  gone  strenuously,  when  he  has 
found  himself  in  a  great  age  —  in  the  stormily  mag- 
nificent fifteenth  century,  in  the  sturdy  and  subtle 
seventeenth  century  —  he  has  made  for  himself  an 


140  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

artistic  instrument,  resonant,  beautiful,  capable  of 
expressing  his  virile  and  individual  emotions. 

Great  art  is  always  virile. 

The  slim  pallidities  of  Fra  Angelico  belong  to  a 
day  of  degenerate  and  monkish  thought. 

Rubens's  great  blond  women  are  the  solaces  of 
the  eternal  fighting  man. 

And  if  the  great  artist  has  always  been  virile  and 
wholesome,  he  has  also  been  the  broad,  spendthrift, 
Rabelaisian  man  —  spendthrift  of  his  golden  fancy, 
his  wit,  his  heart,  his  intelligence.  He  has  net 
chiselled  a  sonnet  —  like  Mallarme  —  and  called 
himself  a  poet ;  like  Homer,  like  Shakspere,  like 
Goethe,  like  Titian,  like  Rubens  and  Da  Vinci  and 
Angelo,  he  has  poured  forth  a  rich  and  golden 
stream,  which  only  death  could  dam.  I  do  net 
think  that  there  is  a  better  example  of  the  essential 
prodigality  of  the  great  artist  than  Rubens  —  not 
even  Shakspere,  who  dowered  the  world  with  so 
much  intellectual  magnificence.  And  I  like  to 
think  of  Rubens  sitting  in  his  garden  (while  his 
handsome  wife  sipped  a  glass  of  wine,  and  his  hand- 
some children  frolicked  with  the  peacocks),  and 
sketching  out,  before  breakfast,  a  masterpiece. 

What  a  great,  flamboyant  energy  was  here ! 

When  one  thinks  of  Rubens  there  is  a  measure 
of  discouragement  in  looking  at  the  art  and  letters 
of  the  present  day.  I  fear  it  is  a  little  generation, 
dear  Lord,  a  dyspeptic  generation,  which  whimpers 


RICHEPIN  AND  THE  VAGROM  MAN    141 

pallid  roundelays.  When  a  hirsute  and  Rabelaisian 
person  like  Walt  Whitman  passes,  a  shudder  runs 
through  organized  society,  so  monstrous  he  seems 
and  gross. 

And  this,  as  I  have  said,  disquiets  the  thinking 
man.  He  cannot  persuade  himself  that  all  is  well 
with  the  age  that  has  a  petty  and  pallid  taste  in  art 
and  letters.  He  recognizes  the  sway  of  the  artificial 
in  the  admiration  which  the  modish  art  critic  pro- 
fesses for  Botticelli.  He  acknowledges  sadly  that  it 
is  the  mode  to  admire  the  degenerate,  the  etiolate, 
the  smug,  the  caduque,  the  petty  things  of  this  day 
or  the  grimacing  symbols  —  out  of  which  all  mean- 
ing has  faded  —  of  the  days  gone  by. 

There  can  be  no  vital  art  of  any  sort  until  there 
has  grown  up  an  appreciation  of  the  Rabelaisian 
spirit,  until  we  dare  to  face  our  passions ;  until  we 
are  unashamed  of  the  riot  of  red  blood  corpuscles ; 
until  we  are  frank  enough  to  be  what  the  dear  Lord 
made  us  —  lusty,  joyous  men  and  women,  lovers  of 
apples  and  flagons,  carnal  and  unabashed. 

It  was  Heine  who  pointed  out  that  the  Berliners 
are  moral  —  because  they  sit  in  snow  up  to  the 
navel ;  and  this  is  the  morality  of  art  and  letters 
to-day.  It  is  an  artificial  and  unclean  morality. 
It  is  the  insincere  modesty  of  the  fig  leaf.  Ah  !  for 
the  frank,  sweet  innocence  that  used  the  fig  leaf  as 
a  fan. 

The  art  of  the  future  ? 


142  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Ah  !  my  pallid  and  anaemic  friends  —  playwriters, 
poets,  musicians,  painters  —  we  need  have  no  fear 
of  that  if  you  will  but  get  out  into  the  open  spaces 
of  life,  let  your  blood  riot  and  your  passions  blaze 
unchecked ;  let  your  natural  and  wholesome  egotism 
have  its  way,  even  though  it  should  lead  you  to  the 
whimsical  conclusion  that  you  have  an  immortal 
soul. 


It  was  Jean  Richepin's  chief  distinction  that  he 
was  splendidly  and  aggressively  himself.  He  had 
Luther's  broad  love  for  life,  and  if  he  hurled  immor- 
tal blasphemies  at  heaven,  instead  of  throwing  ink 
bottles  at  the  devil,  he  was  none  the  less  a  hunter 
of  souls. 

He  was  imprisoned  for  writing  the  "Chanson  des 
Gueux  "  and  lost  his  civic  rights.  While  at  Sainte- 
Pelagie  he  wrote  that  book  of  brutally  modern  tales, 
"  Morts  Bizarres."  Then  came  "  Les  Blasphemes," 
in  which  he  condensed  all  the  bitterness  and  inso- 
lence of  the  modern  scientific  soul.  He  was  as  one 
who  walked  out  under  the  stars  and  beat  his  breast 
and  screamed  defiance  at  the  Elemental  Laws. 

He  wrote  plays  and  novels ;  fame  came  to  him. 

Jean  Richepin,  Bouchor,  Raoul  Pouchon  and 
many  others  in  those  days  frequented  the  Rat  Mort 
in  the  Place  Pigalle. 

It  is  4  o'clock  in  the  morning  —  a  crowd  at  the 


RICHEPIN  AND  THE  VAGROM  MAN    143 

tables  —  Richepin  comes  in.  He  pulls  up  the 
sleeve  of  his  velvet  jacket,  opens  his  shirt  sleeves. 

"See  there!"  he  says,  pointing  to  a  fresh  wound; 
there  were  scratches  too,  on  his  face ;  he  and  Mile. 
Bernhardt  had  been  fighting. 

Sardou,  who  has  just  come  from  Mile.  Bernhardt, 
remarks,  "  (^a  sent  ait  les  coups" 

How  did  Jean  Richepin  and  Sarah  Bernhardt  fall 
in  love  ? 

It  was  very  simple.  Thev  met  one  night  in  the 
Rue  des  Martyrs.  He  saw  her  pass,  accompanied 
by  her  maid.  Her  hair  shone  red  and  gold  in  the 
lamplight.  He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her.  Sarah  turned  on  him  furiously,  and  struck 
him  in  the  face.  They  blackguarded  each  other. 
It  was  very  simple ;  it  was  love. 

They  played  "  Nana-Sahib  "  at  the  Porte  Saint- 
Martin  one  evening  in  the  winter  of  1883.  It  was 
the  night  after  Christmas,  I  believe.  Word  had  got 
about  that  this  last  performance  of  Jean  Richepin's 
play  would  be  marked  by  an  odd  incident.  And 
those  who  went  that  night  were  not  disappointed. 
Before  the  curtain  went  up  the  stage  manager  an- 
nounced that  the  author  of  the  piece  would  play  the 
title  role.     A  magnificent  barbarian  ! 

He,  the  poet,  cared  little  for  the  devices  of  stage- 
craft. He  was  N ana-Sahib  ^  the  lover  of  Djelma. 
Why  should  he  not  take  the  public  into  his  confi- 
dence ?     The  illusion  of  the  character  vanished  in 


144  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

his  magnificent  personality  —  that  gypsy  figure  with 
the  burning  eyes,  the  shock  of  black  hair,  the  loose 
beard.  And  Djelma  ?  The  subtle  Oriental  was 
swept  away  in  the  tempest  of  this  strange  love-mak- 
ing. There  was  left  Sarah  Bernhardt.  We  who 
were  in  Paris  in  those  days  had  heard  odd  tales  of 
the  love  of  these  two  people.  And  they  had  sum- 
moned the  world  to  see  how  well  they  loved.  It 
was  a  frank  and  royal  passion.  He  cried  aloud  in 
that  ringing  voice  of  his  : 

O,  mon  amante,  O,  mon  epouse,  O,  ma  maitresse, 

Dans  un  rayonnement  d'extase,  je  te  vois. 

Lc  ciel,  c'est  ton  regard.      L'ivresse,  c'est  ta  voix. 

Un  frisson  parfume  de  ton  etre  a  mon  etre  — 

« 

They  loved  and  they  proclaimed  it.  There  were 
a  thousand  who  bore  witness.  It  was  a  gypsy  love. 
They  jumped  over  the  broomstick  in  public  and 
the  footlights  did  service  for  the  campfire.  A  few 
months  later  Jean  Richepin  had  tired  of  it  all.  He 
fled  to  Newfoundland  to  escape  the  reproaches  of 
Mile.  Bernhardt. 

Once  in  one  of  his  journeys  he  found  himself 
near  Marseilles.  He  had  a  wife  and  child  there. 
He  fell  into  his  home  like  an  aerolite.  In  an  hour 
he  turned  bourgeois. 

Tout  passe,  tout  cassey  tout  lasse. 

There  for  a  year  he  cut  out  paper  dolls  for  his 
baby  and  made  love  all  over  again  to  Nini,  his  wife. 


RICHEPIN  AND  THE  VAGROM  MAN    145 

For  a  while  the  old  moons  were  forgotten.  Then 
he  wrote  this  letter  to  a  friend :  "  I  depart  for 
Africa.  I  am  sick  of  the  scent  of  the  white 
woman's  hair  and  skin.  I  am  a  nomad,  enemy  of 
the  white  race,  which  has  invented  the  fireside,  the 
family,  the  ideal  and  religion." 

He  vanished  into  the  desert  beyond  sight  of  the 
Berber  country  and  the  White  Peak.  The  romance 
had  gone  out  of  domesticity. 


The  years  have  gone  by  since  then ;  Jean  Riche- 
pin  is  no  longer  the  nomad  ;  he  has  forsaken  the 
great  highways  ;  he  is  rich  and  orderly ;  his  Paris 
home  in  the  Rue  Galvani  might  house  a  banker ; 
but  the  vagrom  man  —  he  who  knew  the  errant  life 
of  old,  the  gay  life  of  the  King's  Highway,  the  life 
of  the  starlit  ditch  and  the  windy  forest  —  still  lives 
in  his  poems  and  plays  and  novels.  He  has  always 
loved  the  vagabonds,  and  not  even  Robert  Burns, 
that  other  independent,  red-corpuscled  poet,  knew 
them  better.  He  has  danced  in  rags  and  kissed  his 
doxy  in  the  straw. 

Were  I  asked  to  name  the  one  book  that  shows 
the  most  and  the  best  of  Jean  Richepin,  I  should 
select  that  dramatic  poem,  "  Le  Chemineau "  — 
which  is  as  though  one  should  say  the  Tramp.  It 
is  the  epic  of  the  Vagrom  Man,  the  Odyssey  of  the 
eternal  Wanderer. 


146  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

The  highway  —  there  is  magic  in  the  very  word. 
It  draws  them  all  —  gypsies,  players,  beggars,  sal- 
timbanques,  poets  —  all  those  who  go  in  the  rags 
of  poverty  or  the  rags  of  the  Great  Ideal.  The 
good  bed  and  fare,  the  easy  chair  in  the  chimnev 
nook,  the  cronies  at  the  cosey  tavern  or  club  —  the 
lover  of  the  Highway  is  willing  to  barter  them  all 
for  the  journey  that  leads  no  whither  and  has  no 
end,  save  the  foolish  end  of  the  grave.  He  sleeps 
cold  and  dines  light,  the  wayfarer.  The  four  winds 
of  heaven  blow  upon  him.  The  rain  and  sleet 
drop  from  the  north  wind's  wings  upon  him.  The 
suns  burn  him.  The  stones  of  the  highway  cut  his 
feet.  He  is  fain  to  fill  his  belly  with  husks.  The 
dogs  bay  him.  And  yet  he  is  happy  —  only  happy 
when  he  travels  the  Highway. 

Why  are  you  happy,  old  pad-the-hoof  ?  Because 
you  journey  on  and  ever  on,  between  the  moun- 
tains and  along  the  plains,  by  thorp  and  grange 
and  town,  through  the  forests  and  mysterious  shaded 
places,  on  and  ever  on,  you  know  not  whither,  save 
that  it  is  toward  something  very  far  away,  golden 
and  glorious,  most  beautiful  —  which  you  shall  never 
reach. 

Le  Chemineau — cest  celui  qui  chemine,  riest-ce pas? 
And  to  Richepin's  hero  there  clings  the  dust  of  the 
road.  He  has  wandered  far.  He  has  begged  his 
crust  of  bread  where  he  could.  The  sun  is  his 
hearth-fire,  the  world  his  home.     He  has  roamed 


RICHEPIN  AND  THE  VAGROM  MAN    147 

the  earth,  singing.  Here  and  there  he  has  worked 
a  little.  It  happens  that  at  this  time  he  is  working 
for  the  rich  farmer  Pierre,  who  is  pressed  in  hay- 
making. And  there  he  meets  the  farmer's  maid- 
servant, Toinette.  The  chemineau  is  twenty,  a 
brown,  merry,  lusty,  handsome  fellow.  Toinette 
loves  him.  The  farmer  has  no  fault  to  find  with 
this  sturdy  lad,  who  is  merry  as  a  sand-boy,  and 
strong  as  an  ox.  But  the  chemineau  will  not  stay. 
It  is  not  that  he  is  ungrateful ;  it  is  not  that  he 
does  not  love  Toinette ;  only  —  the  wind  passes, 
the  birds  fly  —  the  great  horizons  call  him,  he  must 
go.  He  passes  on  his  way,  singing.  For  Toinette 
there  are  wet  eyelids  and  a  broken  heart,  and  an 
honest,  home-keeping  husband. 

Ah  !  little  Toinette,  it  is  the  lesson  all  women 
must  learn.  The  Chemineau  is  not  a  man,  this 
wanderer  enamoured  of  the  great  horizons  is  the 
Ideal  —  that  comes  and  goes  and  shifts  and  does 
not  abide.  The  kisses  of  the  Ideal  do  not  stain 
a  woman's  lips.  They  sweeten  them.  And  this 
the  good  Francois  found  when  he  married  Toinette 
and  consoled  her.  She  made  him  a  brave  little 
wife,  and  the  household  prospered.  Perhaps  in 
dreams  she  heard  the  chanson  of  the  vagabond,  but 
that  could  only  add  happiness  to  her  happy  life. 
Her  little  son  Toinet  grew  apace.  Francois  was 
like  a  father  to  him. 

Twenty  years  go  by;  Toinet  is  almost  a  man. 


148  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Francois  is  crippled  and  kept  to  his  chair  by  the 
fire.  Toinet  is  in  love  with  Alene,  the  daughter  of 
the  rich  old  farmer,  Pierre.  To  the  rich  man  the 
idea  of  their  marriage  seems  preposterous.  In  a 
bitter  scene  he  rakes  up  the  old  scandal  of  Toinette's 
love  for  the  vagabond,  and  Francois,  angered  and 
shocked,  nearly  dies  of  a  stroke.  And  matters  are 
worse  than  ever.  Young  Toinet  wails  for  love  and 
Toinette  rages  like  a  wolf  over  her  suffering  young. 

The  beggarman  comes  singing,  a  rare,  gay,  lilting 
song  —  the  song  of  twenty  years  ago.  But  he  is 
no  older,  the  wayfarer,  for  he  is  still  himself — the 
lover  of  great  horizons,  the  singer  of  songs,  the 
traveller  on  the  inn-less  highway.  And  since  he  is 
something  of  the  Ideal,  it  is  not  miraculous  that 
he  should  bring  happiness,  justice  and  peace  in  his 
pouch.  He  charms  the  old  farmer  into  consenting 
to  the  marriage  of  Alene  and  Toinet  —  ah  !  the 
sorcery  of  the  wayfarer's  songs  !  Even  old  Francois 
mends  a  bit  and  sits  by  the  fire,  wagging  his  head 
in  peaceful  apathy. 

The  end?  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the  beginning 
of  Jean  Richepin's  poem,  the  real  point  of  depart- 
ure. These  good  peasants  are  full  of  gratitude. 
They  offer  the  vagabond  a  horse,  rest,  ease  —  oh  ! 
an  easy  chair  and  a  good  red  fire  and  the  Christmas 
goose  for  this  weary,  frozen,  hungry  Vagrom  Man. 
See,  he  is  naked  of  all  the  world  prizes.  They  will 
give  him  all  —  even  love,  the  love  of  kin.      But  on 


RICHEPIN  AND  THE  VAGROM  MAN    149 

the  other  side  of  the  door,  he  knows,  the  great 
highway  stretches,  far  and  very  far,  into  the  infinite 
mysterious  distance  —  the  great  highway,  swept  with 
wintry  rain,  burned  with  the  summer  sun,  where 
men  fare  on  and  on  to  die  in  a  wayside  ditch. 
Which  will  he  choose  —  this  Vagrom  Man? 

Since  he  is  indeed  the  Wanderer,  what  can  he  do 
but  wander?  It  is  the  logic  (awful,  implacable,  im- 
perturbable as  the  logic  of  the  scientist)  of  the 
Ideal.  Without  him  they  will  sup  well,  sit  warm, 
sleep  deep ;  without  him  they  will  die  decently  be- 
tween four  posts  —  but  as  for  him,  the  Vagrom 
Man,  he  must  go,  on  and  ever  on,  toward  the  mys- 
tery of  the  great  Highway  which  has  no  end.  He 
goes  out  into  the  stormy  night,  singing. 

Jean  Richepin's  symbolic  vagrant  is  at  once  mas- 
terless  and  thoughtless.  No  crime  urges  him  on. 
No  disturbing  melancholy  drags  him  to  and  fro. 
He  is  a  searcher.  He  is  indeed  the  man  who  seeks. 
He  quests  the  Holy  Graal  —  this  phantom  Graal, 
which  he  shall  never  find.  He  is  the  symbol  of  all 
those  who  sought  (there  were  knights  before  Sir 
Galahad)  and  did  not  find.  He  seeks  —  he  knows 
not  what;  he  sings  —  he  knows  not  why.  Myste- 
rious blue  horizons  beckon  him  and  flee.  Life  slips 
by  him,  with  its  serenities  and  pleasant  hours ;  he 
knows  not  of  them  ;  he  sees  only  the  blue,  beckon- 
ing horizons.  Women  cry  to  him  of  love.  He 
kisses  their  wet  faces  and  as  he  wanders  on  he  won- 


1 5o  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

ders  what  this  love  may  be,  and  fashions  a  strange 
little  song,  all  about  wet  eyelids  and  gentle  kisses 
and  broken  hearts,  and  he  trudges  on  toward  the 
flying  horizon,  trolling  the  little,  strange  song.  The 
world  cries  at  him  of  energies  and  needs,  of  great 
actions  and  wasted  hours  —  he  makes  a  little  song 
and  calls  it  the  "  Chanson  of  Wasted  Hours."  So 
light  he  is,  this  Vagrom  Man.  He  wanders  by 
night.  He  knows  the  lonely  forests  and  the  sleep- 
ing cities.  He  is  intimate  with  the  vagrom  moon. 
Always  the  nostalgia  of  the  great  highway  drags 
him  hither  and  thither ;  always  the  false,  blue  hori- 
zons summon  him ;  then  he  dies  in  a  wayside  ditch 
—  and  his  songs  flutter  for  a  little  while  like  errant 
birds  and  fall.  Songs  and  singer  are  dead.  Jean 
Richepin's  "  Le  Chemineau  "  is  the  symbol  of  this 
Vagrom  Man  and  it  is  well. 

Follow  your  natural  impulses ;  be  happy  in  your 
own  way ;  fashion  your  paradise  of  the  passing 
hours ;  your  paradise  may  be 

Faire  un  enfant,  planter  un  arbre,  ecrire  un  livre. 

This,  I  take  it,  is  the  philosophy  of  Jean  Riche- 
pin's life  and  work.  Is  he  a  great  artist?  He  is 
more ;  he  is  alive,  masculine,  vital,  and  in  prose 
and  verse  he  has  made  his  stormy  personality  live, 
this  little  brother  of  Walt  Whitman.     I  have  said 


RICHEPIN  AND  THE  VAGROM  MAN    151 

that  he  is  not  to  be  classed  with  the  Parnassians. 
His  talent  has  multiple  faces.  Naturalist  in  "  La 
Glu,"  romantic  in  "  Monsieur  Scapin,"  realistic  in 
"  Braves  Gens,"  romantic  in  "Miarka" — himself  in 
everything,  he  could  be  classed  —  if  classification  be 
necessary  —  only  as  an  impulsivist.  This  poet  of 
the  "  Mer  "  and  of  the  "  Blasphemes  "  and  "  Mes 
Paradis " —  he  has  travelled  many  highways.  I 
should  not  be  surprised  to  meet  him  on  the  road 
to  Damascus 


The    Christ  of  Jehan  Rictus 


FOR  many  years  Gabriel  Randon  was  known 
as  a  journalist,  a  sentimental  lover  of  an- 
archy—  like  many  of  the  young  writers 
of  France  —  and  a  poet,  whose  verses,  somehow  or 
other,  never  attained  even  the  pallid  success  of  the 
cafes.  A  lean,  handsome,  apostolic  man,  he  wan- 
dered through  life  like  a  homeless  cat.  He  was 
the  Man-of-whom-much-is-expected.  You  know 
these  men.  They  go  to  and  fro  in  literature. 
They  have  abundant  and  impressive  talent.  But 
they  never  find  the  way.  Evidently,  Gabriel  Ran- 
don's  way  was  not  that  of  aesthetic  anarchy  and  the 
fashionable  sneer  at  life.  A  few  years  ago  Gabriel 
Randon  died  and  a  new  poet  was  born.  He  called 
himself  "  Jehan  Rictus  " ;  he  was  lean,  handsome, 
apostolic,  and  he  was  the  ghost  of  the  cynical  and 
sullied  anarchist.  Gabriel  Randon  had  become  as 
a  little  child  —  a  grim,  vagrom,  wretched  gamin  of 
the  gutter  —  had  been  born  again  as  "Jehan  Rictus." 
And  he  sang  the  song  of  the  ragged  man,  of  him 
who  sleeps  under  the  blue  blanket  and  fills  his  belly 
with  the  North  Wind.  It  was  as  though  a  new 
Richepin,  dolorous,  devout  and  realistic,  had  come 
singing  the  song  of  the  chemineau.     He  recited  his 

IS2 


THE  CHRIST  OF  JEHAN  RICTUS        153 

poems  in  the  cafes  of  Montmartre.  They  were 
written  in  the  slang  of  the  gutter.  They  were 
black  with  revolt.  They  were  poems  of  famine 
and  fear  and  misery.     Unviolent,  contented  citizens 

—  fatted  tradesmen  and  powdered  girls  —  flocked 
to  hear  them.  And  Jehan  Rictus  —  this  emaci- 
ated apostle  of  anarchy  —  became  a  mode,  a  fashion, 
a  mania. 

A  Belgian  poet  has  written  one  verse  that  haunts 
me :  "  Have  pity  !  all  my  irony  is  dead."  And 
indeed  without  this  armor  one  is  helpless  and  naked 
to  one's  enemies.  Irony  —  it  is  the  last  refuge  of 
the  unhappy  man ;  in  irony,  as  in  a  white  garment, 
Renan  wrapped  his  unsettled  and  sinister  soul  and 
faced  the  world  with  an  air  of  decent  content ;  irony 

—  it  is  the  sword  that  even  the  beggar  may  carry 
under  his  cloak. 

The  figure  Jehan  Rictus  evokes  comes  gaunt  and 
savage  from  the  garret  and  the  gutter ;  he  would 
come  bearing  a  bomb  of  picric  acid  or  gun-cotton, 
were  it  not  that  his  irony  makes  life  tolerable. 

Les  Soliloques  du  Pauvre  — 

The  Beggar's  Soliloquies. 

In  the  first  poem,  "  Winter,"  you  may  read  the 
A-onic  hatred  of  the  Poor  Man  for  the  professional 
charity  of  the  day  —  the  "  organized  "  charity  of 
fatted  ex-clergymen  and  salaried  hypocrites  —  the 
charity  of  "  balls  "  and  women  who  snivel  serenely 
over  hungry  babies  and  cripples  —  the  charity  that 


i54  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

makes  it  a  business  to  " plaincT  des  Pauvr's  "  —  the 
charity  that  beats  the  drum  on  the  empty  bellies  of 
the  poor — the  charity  that  trades  on  the  suffering 
it  never  relieves. 

Ah!  c'est  qu'on  n'est  pas  muff'  en  France, 
On  n'  s'occup'  que  des  malheureux  ; 
Et  dzimm  et  bourn  !  la  Bienfaisance 
Bat  1'  tambour  su'  les  ventres  creux  ! 

L'en  faut,  des  Pauv's,  c'est  necessaire, 
Afin  qu'  tout  un  chacun  s'exerce, 
Car  si  y  gn'avait  pas  d'  misere, 
Ca  pourrait  bien  miner  1'  commerce. 

And  then  —  it  is  Jehan  Rictus  who  speaks  — 
contemplate  (in  this  winter  time)  the  poets,  painters, 
writers,  who  do  the  dead  baby  act,  or  whimper  over 
the  poor,  and  see  how  they  swim  in  glory  and  in 
wine.  For  them  the  poor  are  only  a  "  subject " — 
to  be  put  in  rhyme  or  prose,  in  play  or  picture. 
Those  who  interpret  the  distress  of  the  poor,  soon 
make  enough  to  retire  with  fortunes.  Victor  Hugo 
got  enough  out  of  his  beggars  to  raise  his  family  in 
luxury.     Richepin  made  a  fortune  pitying  the  poor. 

Eh  done!  tout  seul,  j'  lev'  mon  drapeau  ; 
Va  falloir  tacher  d'et'  sincere 
En  disant  1'  vrai  coup  d'  la  Misere, 
Au  moins,  j'aurai  paye  d'  ma  peau  ! 

And  again  the  Vagrom  Man  goes  wandering  in 
the  streets ;  his  heels  are  raw  and  his  heart  is  black ; 


THE  CHRIST  OF  JEHAN  RICTUS        155 

he  dreams  of  girls  —  of  ingots  of  love  —  of  health 
and  that  happiness  of  which  he  has  been  disin- 
herited. 

Bon,  ma  foi,  si,  gna  pas  moyen, 
C'est  pas  ca  qu'empech'ra  que  j'  l'aime  ! 
Allons,  r'marchons,  suivons  not'  flemme, 
Revons  toujours,  9a  coute  rien  ! 

The  poet  passes  from  hope  to  despair,  from  the 
dream  to  the  deception.  How  high  his  poetry  rises 
at  times  you  may  see  from  the  concluding  lines  of 
"  De'ception  "  —  the  style  is  that  of  rags,  slang,  the 
gutter ;  it  is  popular  and  gross ;  yet  through  it 
there  speaks  the  true  poet  — 

Tonnerr'  de  dieu,  la  Femme  en  Noir, 

La  Sans-Remords  ...  la  Sans-Mamelles, 

La  Dure-aux-Coeurs,  la  Fraiche-aux-Moelles, 

La  Sans-Pitie,  la  Sans-Prunelles, 

Qui  va  jugulant  les  pus  belles 

Et  jarnacquant  1'  jarret  d'  l'Espoir  ; 

Vous  savez  bien  ...  la  Grande  en  Noir 
Qui  tranch'  les  tronch's  par  ribambelles 
Et  dans  les  tas  les  pus  rebelles 
Envoie  son  Tranchoir  en  coup  d'aile 
Pour  fair'  du  Silence  et  du  Soir .' 

Not  even  Rollinat  has  dreamed  a  ghastlier  invo- 
cation to  Death,  la  Femme  en  Noir. 

Of  all  the  poems  of  Jehan  Rictus  the  most  not- 
able is  "  Le  Revenant,"  a  word  for  which  there  is 
no  suitable  English  word,  though  one  is  sadly  needed 


156  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

—  were  it  only  for  this  title  and  that  of  Ibsen's 
"  Ghosts."  The  Revenant  is  he  who  has  come 
again.  And  this  one  is  Christ  —  that  Christ  who 
came  not  to  the  cardinal-archbishops  and  fatted 
pew-holders  of  his  day,  but  to  the  poor  and  lowly 

—  that  Christ  toward  whom  the  broken  and  fatuous 
anarchists  of  the  world  still  look  —  the  Christ  of 
two  thousand  years  ago. 

Ragged  and  famished  the  Vagrom  Man  goes 
padding-the-hoof,  along  the  macadam  of  Paris  town  ; 
and  he  says  to  himself: 

Say,  what  if  He'd  come  again,  see  ? 

Who  ?     Ah,  you're  on  —  de  Vag  of  Galilee, 

Dat  bloke  whose  heart  was  bigger' n  Life. 

And  the  Vagrom  Man  passes,  musing : 

Si  qu'y  r'viendrait,  l'Agneau  sans  tache, 
Si  qu'y  r'viendrait,  1'  Batard  de  PAnge  ? 

C'lui  qui  pus  tard  s'fit  accrocher 
A  trent'-trois  berg's,  en  plein'  jeunesse 
(Mem'  qu'il  est  pas  cor  dependu  !) 
Pour  le  plaisir  d'  rach'ter  ses  frangins 
Qui  euss  l'ont  vendu  et  r'vendu  ; 
Car  tout  1'  monde  en  a  tire  d'  l'or 
D'puis  Juda  jusqu'a  Grandmachin  ! 

If  He  should  come  —  if  He  should  come  —  the 
Man  in  Blue  who  walked  the  sea  —  He  who  cured 
the  sick,  merely  by  looking  them  in  the  eyes  —  if 


THE  CHRIST  OF  JEHAN  RICTUS        157 

He  should  come  !  He  was  not  especially  polite  to 
the  fatted  tradesmen  of  His  day;  He  said,  "Woe 
to  the  Rich  "  ;  the  Man  of  Dreams,  this  carpenter 
who  was  always  on  strike,  this  anarcho,  who  bore 
another  cross  than  that  of  the  Legion  d'Honneur. 
Hein  !  If  He  should  come  —  this  model  of  the 
economist,  who  fed  five  thousand  men  on  three 
loaves  and  seven  fishes.  If  He  should  go  strolling 
from  Montsouris  to  the  Batignolles  — 

And  the  Vagrom  Man  meets  Him,  one  night,  at 
the  corner  of  a  street,  incognito,  and  gives  him  the 
sele  of  the  evening  —  Bon  soir  —  te  via ?  What ? 
Say,  is  it  really  You  ?  Well,  who'd  'a'  guessed  ! 
Wait  till  de  papers  hears  —  dey  won't  do  a  ting, 
see  !  "  Extry  !  Return  of  Jesus  Christ !  Extry  ! 
Saviour's  arrival  —  here  ye  are  !  "  Ah,  the  poor 
devils,  they  must  make  a  livin',  see ;  dey  don' 
know  no  better  —  now.  Jes'  pipe  dem  off — senti- 
nels of  misery.  Dey  don'  know  who  You  is,  see. 
(Hist!  look  out  —  dere  comes  de  cop!)  Get  a 
move  on  ;  dis  way,  Crucified  —  You  know  what  de 
cops  is  !  Dey  had  yez  oncet  for  Disorderly  Con- 
duct, didn't  dey,  in  de  Square  of  Olives  —  de's  just 
as  bad  to-day,  and  I  don'  tink  You  wants  to  be 
run-in  again  and  be  stacked  up  against  anudder  Pi- 
late, see? 

Lemme  see  You  —  ah,  but  You're  white,  ah,  but 
You're  pale  —  You  shudder  with  the  cold  —  You 
tremble  —  ain't  had  no  grub,  eh,  and  ain't  slept?  — 


158  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

poor  felly,  let's  be  frien's.  Shall  we  sit  here  on  de 
bench,  or  shall  we  pad-de-hoof?  Ah,  but  You're 
pale,  an'  white  !  Say,  has  You  still  got  dat  hole  in 
Your  side?  What?  Bleedin'  still?  An'  Your 
poor  hands,  an'  Your  poor  naked  feet  on  the 
asphalt !  Ah,  but  You're  pale,  ah,  but  You're 
white  —  like  a  ghost  or  the  moonlight  fallen.  Gee, 
but  You're  thin  and  git  onter  Your  rags  !  Say,  if 
You'd  'a'  bin  dat  way  when  dey  made  You  King. 

There  on  the  naked  corner  the  Vagrom  Man 
stands  and  talks  to  this  pale  Christ  who  has  come 
up  out  of  the  years.  All  about  them  is  the  noise  of 
traffic  —  yonder  the  locomotives  go  barking,  dogs 
of  iron  —  in  shop  and  factory  whizz  the  iron  wheels 
of  trade ;  c  est  /'  D'esespoir  actuel  que  beugle  !  And 
now  the  snow  is  falling.  The  Vagrom  Man  can 
offer  Him  no  shelter.  Not  a  nip  of  cognac,  a  crust 
of  bread  —  nothing.  Ho,  there  !  ye  lobsters  —  car- 
dinals, cures  and  sacristans,  Protestants,  Catholics, 
give  us  a  crumb  of  the  Host — Gria  Jisus  Christ 
qui  meurt  de  faim.  Go,  then,  open  Your  arms,  take 
flight  and  come  no  more,  or,  Son  of  God,  make  the 
last  miracle. 

And  as  he  turns  away  the  Vagrom  Man  discov- 
ers that  what  he  has  seen  was  not  the  Christ,  but  his 
own  pitiable  image  in  a  shop-window,  and  he  passes, 
sad  and  ironic. 

Vaguely  across  the  prose-reflection  I  have  given 
of  this  strange  poem  you  may  have  discerned  the 


THE  CHRIST  OF  JEHAN  RICTUS        159 

soul  of  Jehan  Rictus  —  at  once  savage  and  pitiful, 
sweet,  resigned,  ironic  and  —  if  it  were  worth  while 
—  anarchic.  He  writes  in  argot;  it  is  the  equiva- 
lent of  the  speech  common  in  the  Bowery.  It  adds 
a  strange  realism  to  his  verse  —  his  verses,  like  his 
beggars,  go  in  the  rags  and  tatters  of  modernity. 
Argot,  however,  is  very  transitory.  The  slang  of 
to-day  is  dead  to-morrow.  I  must  confess  that  I 
do  not  think  "  Le  Revenant  "  would  lose  much  either 
in  power  or  actuality  were  it  dressed  in  the  garment 
of  proper  French.  And  yet  I  do  not  know.  Per- 
haps the  plaint  of  these  poor  wretches,  who  seek 
fiitilely  the  Christ,  gains  a  new  immensity  —  a  new 
poignancy  —  when  it  is  spoken  in  their  own  tongue. 
A  real  poet,  this  Jehan  Rictus.  And  it  is  real 
life,  he  sings  —  life  pitiably  real  and  quotidian. 


Maurice  Barres  and  Egoism 

"~1  FIND  no  sweeter  fat  than  sticks  to  my  own 
I  bones,"  said  Walt  Whitman ;  and  this  casual 
boast  Maurice  Barres  has  erected  into  a  theory 
of  life.  It  is  an  inevitable  consequence  that  he 
should  take  the  dilettantesque  view  of  life.  Men 
and  things  are  merely  the  toys  with  which  his  bored 
Ego  amuses  itself;  in  breaking  a  moral  canon  or 
a  woman's  heart  he  finds  the  child's  pleasure  in 
destroying  a  mechanical  doll.  One  of  M.  Barres' 
disciples  —  he  has  disciples  !  —  has  written  this  sig- 
nificant sentence :  "  Since  in  this  irreparable  flight 
of  things  the  point  and  moment  of  our  con- 
sciousness remain  our  only  good,  we  must  exalt 
it  and  exasperate  its  intensity."  Surely  here  there 
is  nothing  new.  That  smug  dilettante,  Horace, 
chirped  his  carpe  diem  and  drank  himself  to  sleep. 
The  voice  of  Omar  Khayyam  has  come  gallantly 
down  the  years  with  its  praise  of  "  this  day's  mo- 
ment." The  dilettantism  of  M.  Barres,  however, 
is  a  variant  of  the  old  theory ;  he  has  made  of  it 
a  principle  of  action  —  as  Byron  tried  to  live  his 
poetry.  He  has  sent  his  soul  abroad  on  adventur- 
ous missions.  He  has  played  his  part  in  the  come- 
dies of  the  hour.     Wherever  there  were  stir  and 

1 60 


MAURICE  BARR£S  AND  EGOISM        161 

bustle  of  thought  he  has  taken  his  stand  —  loitered 
there,  amiable  and  alert,  amusing  his  Ego.  He  has 
played  with  politics  and  trifled  with  conspiracy. 
No  man  of  his  years  in  France  —  no  one  in  our 
century,  unless  it  be  Disraeli  —  has  enjoyed  more 
of  the  melodramatic  excitements  of  life  and  letters. 
In  1888  he  was  twenty-seven  years  old,  a  smart  little 
bourgeois  dandy;  he  had  written  "Taches  d'Encre," 
perhaps,  but  little  else.  In  one  of  the  minor  re- 
views he  had  published  an  article,  "  La  Jeunesse 
Contemporaine  et  le  General  Boulanger."  Some- 
tning  like  this :  "  To  us,  traversing  a  mystic  and 
unsatisfying  youth  —  that  youth  in  which  the  souls 
of  this  generation  suffer  and  die  —  there  opens  at 
last  a  field  of  action.  Blessed  be  the  hour,  etc. 
The  consoler  and  saviour  appears,  etc.  Palms,  vic- 
tory and  Boulanger,  etc." 

It  all  seems  very  ridiculous  now.  It  was  ridicu- 
lous then.  But  on  the  strength  of  this  article  — 
and  thanks  to  the  fortunate  coalition  of  hopeful 
priests  and  despairing  workingmen  —  this  dandy  of 
letters  found  himself  a  member  of  the  House.  M. 
le  depute  —  there  was  nothing  ridiculous  in  that ; 
indeed  success  is  never  ridiculous ;  when  it  is  the 
result  of  a  single  magazine  article  it  is  in  the  way 
of  being  sublime.  (Beside  this,  Stephane  Mal- 
larme  with  his  donkey-cart  —  the  price  of  one  dark 
symbol  —  pales  into  insignificance.)  There  was  an 
element  of  opera-bouffe  in   M.  Barres'  success  that 


162  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

pricked  up  European  curiosity.  At  St.  Petersburg, 
as  at  Naples,  at  Edinburgh,  as  at  Berlin,  the 
young  acclaimed  him ;  he  was  belabored  and  de- 
fended ;  he  was  a  Cause  !  Think,  then,  my  broth- 
ers, what  a  rare  adventure  was  this  for  the  Ego  of 
our  little  bourgeois  dandy.  He  had  his  disciples ; 
Hermann  Bahr,  Paul  Remer,  absurd  Germans,  and 
the  sombre  Neapolitan,  Vittoria  Pica.  Nordau, 
with  his  strange  Jewish  instinct  for  decay,  crept 
humbly  to  his  feet,  crying,  "  I,  too,  have  a  beauti- 
ful Ego."  Ironic,  elegant,  charmed,  alert,  the  little 
dandy  looked  down  from  his  pedestal  —  he  was 
amusing  his  soul.  And  he  wrote,  wrote,  wrote ; 
strange  essays  that  were  psychological  confessions ; 
fissiparous  novels  that  were  essays  ;  and  he  travelled 

—  in  Italy  and  Spain  he  made  the  stations  of  his 
soul.  The  book  "  Of  Blood,  of  Pleasure  and  of 
Death,"  it  was  his  journey  to  the  island  in  Lough 
Derg.  Life  in  all  its  manifestations  —  the  tumult 
of  politics,  the  dolor  of  women,  the  fritinancy  of 
the  drawing-room  —  was  his  "divine  amusement." 
Once  he  used   Maeterlinck's  figure  of  a  hot-house 

—  he  was  forcing  his  soul.  Now  and  then  he 
pulled  it  up  by  the  roots  to  see  how  it  was  growing. 

"  I  do  things,"  he  said,  "  merely  to  study  the 
effect  they  will  have  upon  Me." 

At  one  time  it  was  the  mode  to  trace  M.  Barres' 
literary  ancestry  through  Renan  and  Stendhal  back 
to  Voltaire.     There    is    truth  enough  in  the  com- 


Maurice   Banes 


MAURICE  BARRfcS  AND  EGOISM         163 

parison  to  keep  it  sweet.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
M.  Barres  possesses  "  multiple  atavisms,"  if  I  may- 
use  a  phrase  of  M.  Maurice  le  Blond.  His  irony, 
always  alert,  his  fancy  for  elegant  mystification,  his 
style,  at  once  correct  and  individual,  his  rather  im- 
pudent attitude,  all,  serve  to  recall  the  writer  whose 
name  was  Arouet.  He  has,  too,  more  than  a  due 
measure  of  Renan's  fat  and  dreary  dilettantism. 
Stendhal  he  approaches  on  the  side  of  his  energy, 
his  gross  love  of  violence,  his  admiration  for  what 
Musset  calls  the  bruit  de  la  vie.  And  yet  M. 
Barres  is  but  a  pale  shadow  of  Henri  Beyle.  Do 
you  remember  that  episode  —  it  is  in  "  Les  Pro- 
menades sans  Rome,"  I  believe  —  of  the  butcher 
who  stabbed  his  rival  ?  The  brutal  energy  of  this 
crime  stirred  Stendhal  like  the  call  of  the  bugle. 
M.  Barres  derived  the  same  excitement  from  the 
tawdry  adventures  of  Marie  BashkirtsefF —  this 
poor  wretch,  who  died  (like  the  girl  of  Tristan  Cor- 
biere)  de  chic,  de  fioire,  ou  de  phthisic  And  here,  I 
think,  there  is  a  difference,  not  only  in  degree,  but 
in  kind.  The  energies  glorified  by  M.  Barres  are 
not  those  of  bold  and  open  violence — not  the 
scarlet  and  beneficent  energies  of  war  —  but  the 
ptomainic  energies  of  decay.  He  is  feverish,  not 
with  passion,  but  with  disease. 

I  have  said  that  M.  Barres  has  had  a  very  great 
influence  upon  the  thought  of  his  day.  Many 
feeble    spirits    have    been    captivated    by   his    non- 


1 64  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

chalant  attitudes.  Not  only  the  Nordaus  and 
Steiners  and  Bahrs  —  these  strange  creatures  for 
whom  imitation  is  a  sort  of  somnambulism,  that 
leads  them  where  they  will  not  —  have  fallen  under 
his  influence.  It  is  not  unimportant,  then,  to 
define,  as  clearly  as  may  be,  his  philosophy  of  life. 

Of  its  own  accord  the  subject  falls  apart  into  two 
divisions.  In  the  first  place  he  proclaims  a  revolt 
against  the  social  laws  and  customs  —  all  the  weight 
of  traditional  morals  and  habitudes,  under  which  his 
Ego  is  stifled.  And,  secondly,  he  makes  an  appeal 
for  all  those  pleasures  and  for  that  accomplished 
hedonism,  which  are  created  and  insured  by  these 
very  laws  and  customs  against  which  he  revolts.  It 
is  this  very  contradiction  that  lends  a  charm  to  his 
philosophy.  He  is  the  child  of  his  age.  His  dilet- 
tantism is  complicated  with  tenderness  and  devotion. 
He  is  an  anarchist  who  would  wear  purple  and  fine 
linen.  He  has  the  rebel's  brain  and  the  exigent 
nerves  of  a  voluptuary.  He  would  fain  destroy  the 
roots  of  civilization  and  yet  he  cannot  live  without 
its  complicated  and  refined  flowers.  In  a  word,  he 
is  that  immitigable  contradiction,  a  sentimental  an- 
archist. What  should  he  do  in  his  journey  through 
the  world  ?     Amuse  yourself,  my  child. 

Mounted  on  his  spry,  little  mule  —  charmed  by 
the  jangle  of  the  bells  —  he  journeyed  through 
Spain  ;  the  chill  of  the  Sierras,  the  burning  heat  of 
the  sensual  south  were  "  therapeutics."     They  gave 


MAURICE  BARRES  AND  EGOISM         165 

him  the  exhilaration  of  alternate  shower-baths,  hot 
and  cold.  And  so  he  rode  on,  soothing  his  nerves 
and  tormenting  his  soul.  He  met  strange  little 
women  — "  Simone,  who  might  one  day  be  Psyche 
who  woke  and  lit  a  torch  and  peered  at  naked  Love, 
sleeping" —  Pia,  who  spat  blood,  and  of  whom  he 
said:  "Ab!  combien  je  faime  ainsi  sanglante  /" — 
and  Berenice,  who  was  as  a  stagnant  pool,  whence 
dreams  rose  to  the  setting  sun ;  and  many  others ; 
and  he  said  :  "  Je  suis  un  amateur  a" ames  !  "  Seville 
flaming  in  the  sun,  the  "  Voluptes  de  la  tauromachie 
et  de  l'auto-de-fe"  the  mystery  of  old  churches, 
wooden  Christs  with  crowns  of  thorns,  Goya's  stren- 
uous pictures,  the  songs  of  kissing  lovers,  murder, 
right  scurvily  done,  quarrels  in  dark  alleyways  —  he 
brought  back  with  him  sensations  of  these  things. 
They  were  the  Spanish  adventures  of  his  soul. 
Satisfied  and  calm,  he  walked  abroad  and  took  the 
air,  a  matador  of  the  passions. 

One  day  he  said  :  "  I  am  an  Enemy  of  the  Laws." 

But  are  not  laws  necessary,  in  our  civilization  at 
least,  to  protect  the  feeble  ? 

"  Sympathy  will  suffice,"  he  said,  "  and  the  gift 
of  tears." 

The  gift  of  tears !  Never  was  there  quite  so 
sentimental  an  anarchist. 

Another  time  he  remembered  that  the  Greeks  had 
called  all  those  who  were  not  of  their  race  by  the 
disdainful  epithet,  "  Barbarians."     M.  Barres  went 


166  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

a  step  further.  The  duty  of  his  Ego,  he  con- 
fessed, was  to  look  upon  all  others  as  "  Barbarians." 
He  built  up  this  old-world  insularity  into  a  book 
"Sous  l'CEil  des  Barbares."  The  Barbarians  — 
they  are  the  old  habitudes,  the  antique  heredities, 
the  worn  thoughts  of  our  fathers,  the  social  preju- 
dices ;  and  it  is  one's  duty  to  turn  them  out  of 
doors  that  one  may  sit,  naked  and  alone,  the  jocund 
master  of  himself.  M.  Barres  calls  this  "  Fanarchie 
inferieure  " ;  and  it  is  the  boast  of  the  young  witch 
in  Goethe's  drama : 

Der  Puder  ist  so  wie  der  Rock, 
Fur  alt'  und  graue  Weibchen  ; 
Drum  sitz'  ich  nackt  auf  meinem  Bock 
Und  zeig'  ein  derbes  Leibchen. 

"  L'Homme  Libre  "  —  it  is  the  title  of  another 
of  M.  Barres'  books ;  in  this  he  has  analyzed  the 
history  of  his  native  land,  Lorraine,  and  somewhat 
of  the  personality  of  the  people  —  the  proud  and 
angry  helplessness  of  the  conquered  —  has  entered 
into  the  book.  It  is  the  nearest  approach  M. 
Barres  has  made  to  impersonal  thought ;  indeed  at 
one  point  he  is  brought  to  confess  that  he  has  "  five 
or  six  very  lively  doubts  of  the  importance  of"  his 
Ego.  Here  at  last  I  come  into  complete  accord 
with  M.  Maurice  Barres ;  I  share  all  his  doubts,  be 
they  five  or  six ;  I  do  not  think  the  soul  of  this 
emotional   dandy  is  of  extreme   importance.     Nor 


MAURICE  BARRES  AND  EGOISM        167 

do  I  think  that  his  adventures  in  life  have  borne 
any  notable  results.  The  problem  of  our  genera- 
tion stands  where  it  stood  —  the  redoubtable  prob- 
lem of  Individualism  and  Solidarity,  this  problem 
which  science  and  democracy  have  rendered  all  the 
more  difficult  of  solution.  This  little  ironic  dilet- 
tante, with  his  pretty  literary  graces  and  eighteenth 
century  artifices,  this  collector  of  feminine  souls, 
this  anarchist  who  would  replace  the  laws  by  the 
"gift  of  tears,"  this  gloating  sentimentalist,  who 
would  kiss  the  bloody  mouth  of  a  consumptive  girl, 
this  Beau  Brummel  of  the  Palais-Bourbon  —  upon 
my  word  he  is  the  drollest,  saddest  figure  in  modern 
French  literature.  He  is  the  founder  of  a  fugitive 
school  of  egoists.  He  has  made  himself  a  mode — 
he  has  impressed  the  popular  imagination  of  the 
day.  Unless  there  had  been  a  taint  of  charlatanism 
this  had  been  impossible.  Like  his  old  master, 
Boulanger,  he  has  known  the  value  of  the  pompous 
phrase  and  the  panache.  There  is  in  him  the  poli- 
tician, the  poet  and  the  philosopher  —  and  the 
greatest  of  these  is  the  politician.  He,  too,  rides 
the  black  charger. 

"  Little  I  myself,"  Aristophanes  was  fond  of  call- 
ing himself;  and  it  is  with  a  touch  of  this  classic 
mockery  that  one  should  take  the  Ego  of  M.  Mau- 
rice Barres. 


Fables,  Ballads,  Pastorals 


Jules  Renard 


CANDID  and  blond  and  operose,  with  little 
eyes  that  twinkled  like  pin-points,  Jules  Re- 
nard stared  at  the  blank  sheets  of  paper. 
With  one  hand  he  ruffled  his  pale  hair  and  beard, 
with  the  other  he  dipped  a  quill-pen  in  ink.  Slowly 
he  began  to  write.  Letter  by  letter  he  painted  in 
the  words  —  as  a  Japanese  poet  prints  flying  syl- 
lables, sombre  and  alert.  The  letters  marched 
across  the  page  —  lean  and  black,  and  errant  as 
grasshoppers.  They  marched  in  single  file.  File 
after  file.  Jules  Renard  watched  them  with  pride 
and  amazement. 

"  I  have  made  them,"  he  said,  "  I  and  none 
other.  I  am  victoriously  myself.  I  am  no  man's 
son.  I  am  not  the  son  of  Flaubert.  I  am  not  the 
son  of  Zola.  I  am  not  the  son  of  my  generation. 
I  am  The  Peasant.  I  am  sad.  I  am  good.  I  am 
cruel.  I  am  patient.  I  fear  God.  I  love  the 
black  cricket.  What  I  am,  I  write.  What  I  write 
is  me.  It  is  not  art.  It  is  not  life.  It  is  myself." 
He  drank  a  glass  of  water,  cleared  his  throat,  and 
read  aloud : 

1 68 


FABLES,  BALLADS,  PASTORALS 


169 


THE    CHIMNEY-SWALLOWS. 

Each  day  they  give  me  my  lesson. 

They  stipple  the  air  with  little  cries. 

They  draw  a  straight  line,  put  in  a  comma,  then 
brusquely  make  a  dash  — 

They  set  the  house  wherein  I  dwell  between  fan- 
tastic parentheses. 

Swift,  so  swift  that  sheet  of  water  in  the  garden 
cannot  mirror  their  flight,  they  mount  from  cellar 
to  cockloft. 

With  light  pen-feathers  they  scrawl  inimitable 
flourishes. 

Then,  two  by  two,  in  accolade,  they  meet  and 
mix  and  become,  on  the  blue  of  heaven,  but  a  blot 
of  ink. 

Only  the  eye  of  a  friend  can  follow  them,  and, 
though  you  know  Latin  and  Greek,  I  —  I  can  read 
the  Hebrew  written  in  the  air  by  the  chimney- 
swallows. 


"  It  is  gentle.  It  is  graceful.  It  is  tender.  It  is 
pure,"  said  Jules  Renard ;  a  smile  rippled  his  pale 
beard. 

"  And  now,"  he  added,  "  I  shall  be  bitter  and  sad 
and  mocking." 

He  was  in  a  hyssop  mood.  The  pin-points  in 
his  face  glittered.     They  were  so  small  —  his  eyes 


170 


FRENCH  PORTRAITS 


—  and  sinister.  Slowly,  laboriously,  he  painted  the 
black  letters.  The  black  letters  were  squads.  The 
squads  were  words.     The  words  were  a  regiment. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Jules  Renard,  "  I  am  The  Peasant, 
who  loves  and  scoffs." 

In  a  voice  that  was  bitter  and  sweet,  he  recited : 


THE    TOAD. 

Born  under  a  stone,  he  lives  under  a  stone  and 
there  he  digs  his  tomb. 

I  visit  him  often,  and  every  time  I  lift  his  stone 
I  am  afraid  of  finding  him  and  afraid  that  he  may 
not  be  there. 

He  is  there. 

Hid  in  his  dry  and  tight  and  tidy  little  house,  his 
very  own,  he  fills  every  nook  of  it  —  plumps  it  out 
like  a  miser's  purse. 

When  the  rain  drives  him  out  he  comes  over  to 
me.  A  few  clumsy  leaps  and  then  he  sets  himself 
up  on  his  haunches  and  stares  at  me  with  red  eyes. 
The  unjust  world  treats  him  like  a  leper,  but  I  —  I 
squat  down  in  front  of  him  and  confront  his  face 
with  my  man's  visage. 

Then,  conquering  a  remnant  of  disgust,  I  caress 
thee  with  my  hand  —  crapaud ! 

(There  is  that  in  life  to  swallow  that  makes  for 
greater  qualmishness.) 

But  yesterday  I  lacked  tact.  He  fermented  and 
oozed  ;  all  his  warts  burst. 


FABLES,  BALLADS,  PASTORALS  171 

"  My  poor  friend,"  I  said  to  him,  "  I  do  not  wish 
to  hurt  your  feelings,  but  —  Lord  !  but  you  are 
ugly !  " 

He  opened  his  puerile,  toothless  mouth  and  re- 
plied, with  a  slight  English  accent : 

"And  you  ?  " 


"And  you?  "  Jules  Renard  repeated. 

He  stared  at  his  man's  visage  in  a  hand  mirror. 
The  pin-points  twinkled  ironically. 

And  Jules  Renard  said  :  "  I  am  Poil-de-Carotte 
and  I  am  l'Ecornifleur —  my  brain  is  peopled  from 
the  fields  and  my  brain  is  peopled  from  books.  I 
see  the  eighteenth  century  across  Goncourt.  I  see 
workingmen  across  Zola.  I  see  society  across  Dau- 
det  and  Bourget.  I  see  peasants  across  Balzac  and 
Maupassant.  I  see  the  sea  across  Michelet  and 
Richepin.  But  the  eyes  wherewith  I  see  the  fields 
and  the  farmyard  are  mine  own." 

And  to  himself  he  droned,  as  one  who  drones  the 
Latin  psalms, — 

THE    DRAGON-FLY. 

She  nurses  her  ophthalmy. 

From   bank   to   bank   of  the   river   she   does  no 
more  than  dip  her  swollen  eyes  in  the  fresh  water. 
And  she  flickers  as  though  she  flew  by  electricity. 


172  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

THE    WASP. 

She  will  end,  however,  by  spoiling  her  figure. 

THE    ANTS„ 

Each  of  them  resembles  a  figure  3. 
That's,  it. 

There  are  333333333333 
—  to  infinity. 

THE    TURKEY    HEN. 

She  pavanes  across  the  courtyard  as  though  she 
lived  under  the  ancien  regime. 

The  other  fowls  eat  always ;  no  matter  what. 
She,  between  her  regular  repasts,  preoccupies  her- 
self only  with  having  a  fetching  air.  All  her  feathers 
are  starched,  and  the  points  of  her  wings  stripe  the 
earth,  as  though  to  trace  out  the  path  she  takes. 

She  carries  her  head  so  high  she  never  sees  her 
feet. 

She  never  mistrusts  any  one,  and  so  when  I  ap- 
proach she  imagines  that  I  wish  to  render  her  my 
homage. 

Already  she  bubbles  with  pride. 

"  Noble  turkey  hen,"  I  say  to  her,  "  if  you  were 
a  goose  I  would  write  your  eulogy,  as  BufTon  did, 
with  one  of  your  quill  feathers.  But  you  are  only  a 
turkey  hen." 

I  must  have  vexed  her,  for  the  blood  mounts  to 


FABLES,  BALLADS,  PASTORALS  173 

her  head.  The  grapes  of  wrath  hang  at  her  beak. 
She  has  a  crisis  of  red.  Smartly  she  flirts  open  the 
fan  of  her  tail,  and  thus  this  old  coquette  turns  her 
back  on  me.     Chipie  ! 


THE    RABBITS. 

In  an  overturned  barrel  Grayie  and  Blackie,  all 
furry  and  warm,  eat  like  cows.  They  have  only 
one  meal,  and  that  lasts  all  day. 

If  one  is  slow  about  throwing  them  a  fresh  cab- 
bage, they  gnaw  the  old  one  to  the  stump,  and  whet 
their  teeth  even  on  the  root. 

Now,  once  there  fell  to  them  a  head  of  lettuce. 
Grayie  and  Blackie  went  for  it  together. 

Nose  to  nose  they  struggled,  tossing  their  heads 
and  wagging  their  ears. 

When  there  was  only  one  leaf  left  they  seized  it, 
each  at  an  end,  and  the  race  began. 

Though  they  were  serious  enough,  you  would 
have  thought  they  played,  and  that  when  the  leaf 
was  swallowed  their  little  snouts  would  unite  in  a 
fraternal  kiss. 

But  Grayie  felt  himself  weakening.  Since  the 
day  before  he  had  been  in  a  bad  way ;  his  little 
stomach  was  puffed  out  like  a  balloon.  In  fact,  he 
had  eaten  too  much.  And  though  a  leaf  of  lettuce 
is  but  a  trifle,  even  to  one  who  is  not  hungry, 
Grayie  could  do  no  more.     He   dropped   the   leaf 


174  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

and  lay  on  his  side  in  the  dirt,  shaken  with  con- 
vulsions. 

There  he  lay,  rigid,  his  paws  spread,  as  though 
ready  for  a  heraldic  motto  :  "On  tue  net,  on  tue 
loin." 

For  one  moment  Blackie  paused  in  surprise. 
Bolt  upright,  breathing  gently,  his  lips  shut  fast,  he 
stared  with  rose-circled  eyes. 

He  had  the  air  of  a  sorcerer  who  penetrates  a 
mystery.  His  two  erect  ears  marked  the  supreme 
moment. 

Then  they  fell. 

And  he  finished  the  leaf  of  lettuce. 


A    FAMILY    OF    TREES. 

It  was  after  traversing  a  sunburned  plain  that  I 
met  them. 

They  do  not  dwell  by  the  roadside,  on  account 
of  the  noise.  They  inhabit  the  incult  fields,  by  a 
brook  known  only  of  the  birds. 

From  afar  they  seem  impenetrable.  As  soon  as 
I  approach,  their  trunks  disperse.  They  receive  me 
prudently.  I  may  rest  and  refresh  myself,  but  I 
divine  that  they  observe  me  and  mistrust. 

They  live  en  famUle,  the  oldest  in  the  midst,  and 
the  little  ones  —  those  whose  leaves  are  just  bud- 
ding—  about  them,  here  and  there,  but  never  stray- 
ing far. 


FABLES,  BALLADS,  PASTORALS  175 

They  put  off  dying  for  a  long  time,  and  they 
keep  the  dead  standing  till  they  fall  to  dust. 

They  touch  each  other  lightly  with  their  long 
branches  —  like  the  blind  —  to  assure  themselves 
that  all  are  there.  Wrathfully  they  gesticulate  if 
the  wind  storms  to  uproot  them.  But  among  them- 
selves no  dispute.     They  murmur  only  in  accord. 

I  feel  that  they  should  be  my  true  family. 
Quickly  I  should  forget  the  other.  Little  by  little 
the  trees  would  adopt  me,  and  to  merit  it  I  should 
learn  what  needs  be  known. 

Already  I  know  how  to  watch  the  clouds  that 
pass. 

I  know  also  how  to  keep  my  place. 

And  I  know,  almost,  how  to  hold  my  peace. 

"  Je  suis  le  chasseur  d'images,"  said  Jules  Renard, 
"  I  am  the  hunter  of  images." 


Paul  Fort 

Cette  fille,  elle  est  morte,  est  morte  dans  ses  amours. 

lis  l'ont  portee  en  terre,  en  terre  au  point  du  jour. 

Us  l'ont  couchee  toute  seule,  toute  seule  en  ses  atours. 

Us  l'ont  couchee  toute  seule,  toute  seule  en  son  cercueil. 

Us  sont  revenus  gaiment,  gaiment  avec  le  jour. 

Us  ont  chante  gaiment,  gaiment :   "  Chacun  son  tour. 

Cette  fille,  elle  est  morte,  est  morte  dans  ses  amours." 

Us  sont  alles  aux  champs,  aux  champs  comme  tous  les  jours. 


Paul  Fort  is  the  ballad-monger  of  young  France. 
He  has,  however,  his  own  definition  of  the  ballad. 
He  has  no  kinship  with  the  old  minstrels,  though 
his  "  Louis  XI."  might  well  have  been  written  by  a 
Joculator  Regis  in  some  idle,  venomous  hour.  His 
ballads  are  the  fanciful  reverse  of  Villon's ;  indeed, 
they  are  incurably  his  own.  They  are  written  in 
prose  —  if  that  be  prose  which  carries  itself  with  all 
the  rhythmic  graces  of  verse ;  they  are  written  in 
verse  —  if  that  be  verse  which  has  all  the  concision 
and  lawlessness  of  prose.  In  a  word,  Paul  Fort  has 
devised  for  himself  a  new  poetical  instrument. 

In  the  second  series  of  his  "Ballades  Francaises  " 
there  is  a  little  ballad  that  may  be  taken  as  a  point 
of  departure  for  this  vagrom  appreciation.  It 
reads : 

176 


FABLES,  BALLADS,  PASTORALS  177 

"  Oh,  who  will  say  to  me  (who  shall  not  lie) : 
Re-creator,  O  visionary,  if  you  are  the  black  Orient 
slave  of  your  symbols,  you  are  the  brother,  the 
white  master  of  your  words." 

This  is  self-criticism  of  a  very  high  order.  He  is 
an  ingenuous  pantheist.  He  is  the  slave,  like  the 
suave  faun  and  the  white  Pierrot,  of  his  lawless 
emotions.  He  is  their  slave  and  he  is  not  their 
dupe  —  Pierrot  weeps  and  mocks  his  own  sincere 
tears.  The  chief  characteristic  of  the  Pierrotic  per- 
son is  irony.  He  is  simple  and  artificial,  senti- 
mental and  heartless,  at  once  man  and  child.  His 
virtues  are  involuntary.  He  is  irresponsible  for  his 
vices.  He  is  a  moon-lover  and  the  Orient  slave  of 
the  symbolic  moon.  But  withal  he  is  master  of  his 
own  irony.  Harlequin,  this  red  and  black  effigy 
of  humanity,  belabors  him  with  a  stick ;  Columbine 
deceives  him  ;  Pantaloon  sermonizes  him,  like  the 
grave  judge  FalstafF  met  in  the  way  —  and  yet  he 
marks  him  not ;  blows  and  false  kisses  and  hard 
words  are  merely  food  for  his  universal  irony. 

Now  Paul  Fort  is  distinctly  a  Pierrotic  person. 
He  is  picturesque,  sentimental  and  ironic.  He  is 
sincere  —  with  a  sort  of  semi-sincerity  that  mocks 
at  itself. 

"  Villages  aux  chairs  blondes,  etendus  sur  la 
plaine,  doux  fruits  qui  rougissez  dans  vos  corbeilles 
d'arbres,  je  chanterai  l'eclat  de  vos  lumieres  saines 
et  tout  l'horizon  tendre  qui  vous  accompagne. 


178  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

"  Je  dirai  la  douceur  de  vos  metamorphoses  des 
fruits  en  clairs  vaisseaux,  de  la  brume  de  1'aube 
jusqu'au  soir  ou,  fondus  dans  les  noires  corbeilles, 
vous  n'etes  plus  qu'un  miel  etale  sur  la  plaine. 

"  (Des  villages  en  fruits,  puis  en  vaisseaux,  mal- 
heur !  assez  de  ces  folies,  diront  mes  bons  amis, 
lis  ne  savent  ce  qu'ils  voient,  mon  Dieu,  pardonnez- 
leur.  Ce  fruit  devient  vaisseau,  puis  ce  vaisseau 
miel,  oui ! 

"  (La  brume  rapetisse  et  veloute  les  formes,  et  ce 
qui  est  un  toit  ne  me  parait  qu'un  fruit.  Je  dis  ce 
que  je  vois,  ce  que  Dieu  pense  en  somme  puisqu'il 
cree  ma  vision  et  ce  qui  la  produit.  .  .  .)  " 

There  is  one  little  ballad  that,  in  its  absolute 
sincerity  of  mood  and  its  simplicity  of  expression, 
will  give  you  a  fair  measure  of  Paul  Fort's  curious 
talent.  Even  in  translation  its  melancholy  grace  is 
not  wholly  lost : 

They  have  chosen  the  sea  ;  they  shall  come  back  no  more.  And 
then  —  would  you  know  them  should  they  come  again  ? 

The  sea  has  masked  them,  ere  it  gave  them  back.  You  would 
not  know  whether  they  laughed  or  wept  beneath  their  tan. 

They  have  their  soul  no  more,  it  has  tarried  in  the  sea.  Assidu- 
ous in  plunder,  ardent,  is  the  sea  ! 

They  shall  return  no  more,  they  have  chosen  the  sea.  And  then, 
if  they  should  come,  would  it  be  they  who  came  ? 

No  one,  I  think,  quite  so  well  fulfils  M.  de  Bou- 
helier's  theory  of  what  a  poet  should  be  —  a  rhythm 
scanned  by  Nature  herself.     No  poet  is  such  a  frank 


FABLES,  BALLADS,  PASTORALS  179 

interpreter  of  his  intimate  moods.  And  then,  withal, 
Paul  Fort  has  fashioned  for  himself  an  individual 
and  personal  mode  of  expression  —  and  if  that  be 
not  genius,  it  is  at  least  a  serviceable  substitute. 


Francis  Jammes 

And  asked  who  thee  forth  did  bring 
A  shepherd's  swain,  say,  did  thee  sing 
All  as  his  straying  flock  he  fed. 

Francis  Jammes  is  a  pastoral  poet.  Like  Ed- 
mund Spenser  he  has  written  a  Shepherd's  Calendar. 
Like  Petrarch  he  has  sung  the  elegy  of  March. 
All  this  were  simple  enough.  The  pastoral  modes 
have  always  been  favored  in  French  verse.  If  you 
have  ever  had  occasion  to  read  much  French  poetry 
of  the  bucolic  kind,  you  found  it,  I  daresay,  rather 
cold  and  tedious.  Its  main  characteristic  is  its 
artifice  of  simplicity.  Its  shepherds  are  witty  and 
gallant ;  they  carry  themselves  with  the  grace  of  the 
little  figures  in  a  Watteau  garden ;  they  tinkle 
pretty  rhymes  of  brebis  and  habits^  of  pleurs  and 
douleurs.  Perhaps  you  cannot  read  Segrais  (whom 
Boileau  praised)  nor  Madame  Deshoulieres  nor 
M.  le  Marquis  de  Racan,  any  more  than  you  can 
read  the  pastorals  of  Pope ;  and  yet  all  this  litera- 
ture has  a  charm  —  the  charm  of  insincerity  and 
feigned  simplicity.  You  wander  through  it  as 
through  the  maze  at  Hampton  Court,  a  trifle  bored 
and  yet  pleasantly  bewildered.  If  not  at  the  first 
turning,  certainly  at  the  second  you  know  you  will 

180 


FABLES,  BALLADS,  PASTORALS  181 

find  the  unhappy  shepherd  seated  in  the  shade  of 
the  sycamore  tree,  his  head  on  his  hands,  his  flute 
at  his  feet,  his  dog  lying  near  him  —  this  trist  and 
tender  shepherd ;  and  you  know  he  will  sing  of 
cruel  love  and  love's  deceit,  as  the  poetical  shepherds 
have  always  sung  since  Bion  and  Moschus  set  them 
singing.  John  Davidson  in  his  "  Fleet  Street  Ec- 
logues "  has  shown  that  it  is  not  impossible  to 
revivify  this  old  and  faded  form  of  verse.  The 
"  west  wind  "  that  sang  to  the  fanciful  lovers  of  the 
Marquis  d'Urfe  makes  a  new  music,  as  it  "faintly 
stirs  the  Fleet  Street  wires."  It  may  be  that  Mr. 
Davidson,  by  informing  the  old  modes  with  fresh 
poetry,  is  plotting  the  curves  of  a  new  movement 
in  literature.  It  may  be  that  he  and  not  M. 
Jammes  is  forecasting  the  bucolics  of  the  future. 

It  was,  I  think,  in  1894  that  M.  Jammes'  first 
book  appeared  —  troubled,  hurried,  almost  acciden- 
tal verses,  across  which  one  got  a  glimpse  of  his 
countryside,  the  foot-hills  of  the  Pyrenees,  where 

Les  villages  brillent  au  soleil  dans  les  plaines, 
Pleins  de  clochers,  de  rivieres,  d'auberges  noires. 

Sun-browned  peasant  girls  pass  along  the  dusty 
roads  ;  the  shepherd  goes  afield  ;  and  then  —  for 
this  poet  has  the  heart  of  Laurence  Sterne  —  he 
makes  a  little  incursion  into  asinine  sentiment : 

J'aime  l'ane  si  doux 
marchant  le  long  des  houx. 


1 82  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

U  prend  garde  aux  abeilles 
et  bouge  les  oreilles  ; 

Et  il  porte  les  pauvres 
et  des  sacs  remplis  d'orge. 

You  smile  and  wonder  whether  some  minusculous 
beauty  may  not  have  slipped  through  the  meshes 
of  your  appreciation.  The  little  book  lies  before 
me  as  I  write ;  I  flutter  its  pages  and  try  in  vain  to 
capture  some  of  the  charm  that  I  once  felt  in  it  — 
perhaps  it  is  a  book  to  be  read  only  once.  The 
witchery  fades  out  of  what  one  may  call  accidental 
poetry  very  quickly.  Here,  too,  is  "  Le  Jour." 
At  second  glance  one  is  almost  inclined  to  believe 
that  it  is  a  mystification,  like  William  Edmonstoune 
Aytoun's  famous  poetical  hoax,  "  Firmilian."  It 
has  a  monstrous  air  of  deceit  —  like  an  old  man 
with  boyish  eyes.  For  a  little  while  the  dialogue 
goes  blithely  on,  with  delicate  glimpses  of  blue 
horizons  and  shadowy  trees  —  then  there  enters  an 
image  so  gross  and  common  that  you  veil  your 
eyes.  Is  it  naivete  or  waggery  ?  Here  there  is 
music,  admirable  and  grave ;  then  all  is  adrift  in  a 
confusion  of  rhythm  and  rhyme  that  is  not  "  free- 
verse,"  but  verselessness.  And  yet  there  are  lines 
that  win  you  and  haunt  you.  In  a  sunny  room, 
filled  with  the  odor  of  fruit  and  flowers,  ironing 
the  white  linen,  as  she  stands  by  the  window,  is 
la  mere  douce  au  cheveux  gris  dont  tu  est  n'e. 


FABLES,  BALLADS,  PASTORALS  183 

In  his  eclogue  of  the  month  of  March,  there  are 
the  same  discordancies  —  this  almost  childish  ad- 
mixture of  real  insight  and  absurd  artifice.  With  a 
peasant's  exactitude  he  describes  the  lengthening  of 
the  days  "  by  one  hour  and  fifty  minutes  "  and  the 
field-faring  of  the  herds,  the  fluting  of  the  goat- 
herds and  the  farmer's  sowing  ;  and  then  —  for  it  is 
March  —  he  tells  again  the  story  of  Christ,  with  all 
a  poet's  tenderness  and  simplicity  : 

II  etait  doux  comme  le  ciel,  et  son  petit  anon 

trottinait  joyeusement  sur  les  palmes  jetees. 

Des  mendiants  amers  sanglotaient  de  joie, 

en  le  suivant,  parcequ'ils  avaient  la  foi.  .    .    . 

De  mauvaises  femmes  devenaient  bonnes 

en  le  voyant  passer  avec  son  aureole 

si  belle  qu'on  croyait  que  c'etait  le  soleil. 

II  avait  un  sourire  et  des  cheveux  en  miel. 

II  a  ressuscite  des  morts.  ...  lis  l'ont  crucifie.  .  .  . 

And  because  he  has  written  these  verses  and 
many  others  quite  as  exquisite  I  am  forced  to  be- 
lieve that  he  is  a  poet  who  has  not  yet  found  his 
way  —  a  shepherd  whose  flute  is  out  of  tune. 


The  New   Erasmus:  Marcel 
Schwob 

IT  is  difficult  to  think  of  Marcel  Schwob  without 
applying  to  him  the  epithet  'Epaoyuos  and  all  its 
amiable  derivatives.  He  has  the  wit  and  tender- 
ness and  learning  —  a  touch,  too,  of  the  pedantry  — 
of  that  sixteenth  century  Dutchman  who  sank  his 
own  name  in  a  Greek  word.  In  a  word,  he  is  yeasted 
with  the  Erasmian  principle.  There  is  the  widest 
possible  divulsion  between  his  calm,  far-seeing  phi- 
losophy and  the  angry  and  vehement  speculations  of 
the  fashionable  scientists.  His  definition  of  art  is  a 
masterpiece  of  clear-thinking :  "  Art  is  opposed  to 
general  ideas ;  it  describes  only  the  individual ;  it 
desires  only  the  unique.  It  does  not  class;  it  de- 
classes."  And  in  all  his  work  he  has  practised  this 
neglected  art  of  "  differentiating  existences  "  —  if  I 
may  use  a  comprehensive  phrase  of  M.  Remy  de 
Gourmont.  It  is  his  purpose  to  create  or  re-create 
individual  life.  Let  me  take  a  definite  illustration. 
In  all  history  there  is  nothing  as  inexplicable  as 
the  Children's  Crusade  —  nothing  more  strangely 
pathetic.  To  the  historian  it  has  always  been  a 
stumbling-block.      Even  to   Pope  Innocent  III.  it 


THE  NEW  ERASMUS  185 

was  a  divine  mystery.  And  to-day  the  faith  that 
led  these  dead  innocents  to  death  and  slavery  is  as 
dark  a  riddle  as  it  was  eight  centuries  ago.  Some- 
thing called  to  them  like  the  voice  of  a  bird.  From 
Germany  and  Flanders  and  France  they  set  out  on 
their  pilgrimage  to  the  Saviour's  tomb  in  Jerusalem. 
Tiny  pilgrims  were  they,  with  birchen  staves  and 
crosses  of  woven  flowers.  There  were  more  than 
seven  thousand  children  in  white  garments.  They 
filled  the  road  like  a  swarm  of  white  bees.  And  as 
they  marched  toward  the  sea  —  to  death  and  cap- 
tivity—  they  sang  the  songs  of  Him  whose  tomb 
they  sought  in  far-off  Judea. 

You  will  seek  in  vain  through  the  great  histories 
for  any  vital  picture  of  this  strange  adventure  of  the 
Lord's  children.  The  perfume  and  tenderness  — 
even  the  meaning  —  is  crushed  out  in  the  rough 
grip  of  historical  synthesis.  Marcel  Schwob  has 
told  the  story  in  his  own  way  —  he  has  re-created 
for  you  the  individual.  The  story  is  told  in  eight 
sketches.  First  the  Goliard  speaks.  A  poor,  wan- 
dering brother  he,  a  miserable  clerk,  begging  his 
bread  in  our  Lord's  name  along  the  roads.  The 
children  pass  him  and  he  says  :  "  They  are  wild, 
untaught  children.  They  are  wandering  toward  I 
know  not  what.  They  have  faith  in  Jerusalem.  I 
think  that  Jerusalem  is  far  off,  and  our  Lord  must 
be  nearer  us.  They  will  not  come  to  Jerusalem. 
But  Jerusalem  will  come  to  them.  And  to  me. 
The  end  of  all  holy  things  is  in  joy." 


1 86  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

And  always  the  little  pilgrims  pass,  along  the 
shining  roads  that  lead  to  the  sea,  like  a  swarm  of 
white  bees. 

There  comes  a  leper ;  his  head  is  covered  with  a 
white  cowl  and  he  shakes  a  clapper  of  hard  wood. 
He  no  longer  knows  what  his  face  is  and  he  fears 
his  hands.  They  run  before  him  like  livid  and  scaly 
beasts.  The  heart  in  his  breast  is  ashes,  for  he 
knows  the  Saviour  has  not  atoned  for  his  pallid  sin. 
He  is  alone  and  full  of  horror.  He  lies  in  the  dark 
forest  of  the  Loire.  The  little  children  coming 
down  from  the  land  of  Vendome  pass  thereby,  and 
he  is  minded  to  do  them  harm.  But  the  children 
said  :  "  Why  should  we  be  afraid  of  you,  white  wan- 
derer ?  "  They  were  not  afraid  of  him  !  His  mon- 
strous whiteness  seemed  to  them  like  the  whiteness 
of  our  Lord.  And  the  leper  drew  his  cowl  and 
said  :  "  Go  in  peace  toward  your  white  Lord,  and 
say  to  him  that  he  has  forgotten  me."  He  vanished 
in  the  dark  forest  and  the  sound  of  his  wooden  clap- 
per came  to  them  like  the  pure  sound  of  bells. 

Always  the  little  pilgrims  pass,  like  a  swarm  of 
white  bees. 

And  the  old  pope,  Innocent  III.,  kneeled  in  a 
white,  ungilded  cell  and  prayed  to  God,  whose  vicar 
he  was.  And  he  said  :  "  I  am  a  very  old  man. 
My  faith  is  no  longer  the  faith  of  little  children." 
The  trembling  of  old  age  seized  him.  He  said 
again :     "  This    children's    crusade    is    not    a    good 


THE  NEW  ERASMUS  187 

work.  It  cannot  gain  the  sepulchre  for  Christians. 
These  children  will  perish.  Under  Innocent,  let 
there  not  be  a  new  massacre  of  the  Innocents. 
Lord,  they  are  thy  little  Innocents.  And  I,  Inno- 
cent, I  do  not  know.      I  do  not  know." 

Always  the  little  pilgrims  pass. 

And  three  of  them,  Nicholas,  who  cannot  speak, 
and  Alain  and  Denis,  walk  together.  And  Alain 
says:  "We  have  been  walking  a  long  time.  We 
sang  in  the  villages.  All  the  children  ran  to  us. 
And  we  went  forward  like  a  flock.  Some  men 
cursed  us,  not  knowing  the  Lord.  Some  women 
held  us  back  by  our  arms  and  questioned  us,  and 
covered  our  faces  with  kisses.  There  is  a  child 
here  called  Eustache,  who  was  born  with  his  eyes 
sealed.  A  little  girl  leads  him  and  bears  his  cross. 
Her  name  is  Allys.  Eustache  will  not  be  able  to 
see  the  holy  lamps  of  the  sepulchre.  But  Allys 
will  take  his  hand  and  make  him  touch  the  flag- 
stones of  the  tomb." 

They  come  to  the  city  of  Marseilles,  and  you 
may  read  in  the  deposition  of  Francois  Longuejoue, 
clerk,  how  ships  were  found  to  carry  them  over  to 
be  rid  of  them,  for  the  burghers  would  not  "  meddle 
with  the  madness  of  this  childish  army."  Some  of 
the  ships  the  storms  destroyed.  Many  were  capt- 
ured by  the  infidels,  scouring  the  seas  in  their 
feluccas  from  Algiers  and  Bujeiah.  And  these 
children  were    bought    by  the    Commander  of  the 


1 88  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Faithful.  A  calendar  saw  them  on  the  highway,  as 
they  passed  into  captivity.  They  walked  like  a 
flock  of  sheep. 

There  is  a  picture  of  little  Allys  and  Eustache, 
who  was  born  with  sealed  eyes,  as  they  go  hand  in 
hand  to  death,  and  then  the  story  goes  back  to 
Rome,  where  the  old  pope,  Gregory  IX.,  cries : 
"  O  Mediterranean  Sea,  give  me  back  my  chil- 
dren !  " 

This  book  is  a  perfect  illustration  of  Marcel 
Schwob's  system  It  differentiates  existences.  It 
re-creates  the  individual  life.  Across  the  waste  of 
years  it  summons  those  little  martyrs,  full  of  blind, 
victorious  faith,  who  sought  the  Saviour's  tomb  and 
were  destroyed.  It  makes  them  live  again.  Gar- 
landed with  flowers,  they  walk  the  white  roads, 
singing  the  songs  of  the  cross.  And  as  you  read 
there  comes  to  you  something  of  their  tragic  and 
miraculous  faith.  You  see  with  their  eyes  and  with 
the  eyes  of  the  leper  and  the  white  pope. 

In  the  "  Mimes  "  it  was  his  purpose  to  re-create 
Greek  life.  He  painted  twenty  little  pictures.  In 
one  you  see  the  old  cook,  in  one  hand  his  kitchen- 
knife,  in  the  other  a  conger  eel,  and  the  old  man 
chatters  of  the  life  of  the  house ;  again  a  sycophant 
passes  ;  or  perhaps  the  children  play  with  wooden 
swallows,  or  the  poet  fares  ill  in  his  inn  ;  a  disguised 
slave  sets  out  on  his  adventures,  or  a  shepherd  pipes 
in  the  rich  Sicilian  meadows  ;  here  a  sailorman  comes 


THE  NEW  ERASMUS  189 

boasting  from  the  perils  of  the  sea,  and  there  Kinne 
wanders  with  her  lover.  Each  figure  is  as  distinct 
as  the  men  and  women  you  see  from  your  window. 
It  is  as  though  you  had  made  a  little  journey  into 
Greece  and  tarried  at  an  inn  and  foregathered  with  a 
few  simple  folk.  Your  stay  was  short  and  so  you 
came  away  without  meeting  Socrates,  but  you  say  : 
"  At  all  events,  I  know  Greece  —  the  next  time  I 
go  there  I  shall  take  letters  of  introduction  to  some 
of  the  famous  men  of  the  hour."  In  re-creating 
individuals  M.  Schwob  has  created  Greek  life  —  as 
no  one  else  has  done  it.  That  you  may  have  a 
faint  idea  of  these  "  Mimes  "  I  have  translated  the 
"  Hermes  Psychagogos."  I  may  preface  the  transla- 
tion with  a  paragraph  from  a  letter  Marcel  Schwob 
wrote  me  recently,  for  I  have  never  had  anv  great 
care  to  pose  as  a  modest  man  : 

"Your  translation  of  '  Hermes  Psychagogos'  is 
delightful.  Do  you  know  that  Robert  Louis  Ste- 
venson dearly  loved  that  same  little  mime,  which 
you  have  chosen  among  the  others?  He  wrote 
to  me  and  told  me  so, —  more,  he  wrote  to  the  poet 
William  E.  Henley,  in  one  of  his  last  letters, 
that  it  would  be  work  worthy  of  such  a  poet  as 
Henley  is,  to  translate  the  few  lines.  So  you  can 
understand  how  proud  I  felt  when  I  received  your 
translation." 

Not  all  the  beauty  of  Marcel  Schwob's  exquisite 
and  fluted  prose  is  in  my  translation  ;   I  feel,  indeed, 


190  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

that  it  is  harsh  and  inadequate;  but  since   Henley 
has  not  taken  good  advice  — 
Read  here : 

Whether  the  dead  be  hid  in  sarcophagus  of 
sculptured  stone,  laid  in  the  belly  of  metal  urns, 
or  in  the  earth,  or  set  up,  gilded  and  painted  blue, 
without  brain  or  viscera,  wrapped  round  with  linen 
bands  — 

I  marshall  them  in  troops  and  guide  the  march 
with  my  compelling  wand. 

We  fare  by  a  fleet  way  that  men  cannot  see. 
The  harlots  press  against  the  virgins  and  the  mur- 
derers against  the  philosophers  and  the  mothers 
against  those  who  would  not  be  with  child  and  the 
priests  against  the  perjurers.  For  they  repent  of 
their  crimes,  be  it  those  they  imagined  in  their 
heads  or  those  they  did  with  their  hands.  And 
having  never  been  free  on  earth,  since  they  were 
bound  by  the  laws  and  the  customs,  or  by  their  own 
good  heed,  they  fear  the  isolation  and  sustain  each 
other.  She  who  slept  naked  in  tiled  chambers 
among  men,  consoles  a  young  girl  who  died  ere  her 
wedding-night  and  still  dreams  imperiously  of  love. 
One  who  killed  on  the  highway,  his  face  foul  with 
ashes  and  sweat,  places  his  hand  on  the  brow  of  a 
thinker,  who  wished  to  regenerate  the  world  and 
preached  death.  The  dame  who  loved  her  children, 
and  through  them  suffered,  leans  her  head  on  the 


THE  NEW  ERASMUS  191 

breast  of  a  harlot,  who  was  wilfully  sterile.  The 
man  clothed  in  a  long  robe,  who  persuaded  himself 
to  love  his  God  and  constrained  himself  to  genu- 
flections, weeps  on  the  shoulder  of  the  cynic,  who, 
under  the  eyes  of  the  citizens,  did  break  all  the 
oaths  of  the  flesh  and  the  spirit.  Thus  they  help 
each  other  on  the  wav,  marching  under  the  yoke  of 
memory. 

Then  they  come  to  the  bank  of  Lethe,  where  I 
marshall  them  beside  the  water  that  rolls  on  in 
silence.  And  some  plunge  into  the  water  the  heads 
that  held  evil  thoughts,  and  others  dip  the  hands 
that  did  evil.  They  rise  again,  and,  lo,  the  water 
of  Lethe  has  quenched  all  memory.  Forthwith 
they  separate  and  each  to  himself  smiles,  believing 
he  is  free. 

Since  the  name  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  has 
occurred,  I  should  say  here  that  M.  Schwob  is 
perhaps  his  most  subtle  interpreter.  His  essay  on 
Stevenson  —  you  will  find  it  in  "  Spicilege  "  —  is 
singularly  illuminative  even  to  one  who  is  not  with- 
out Stevensonian  lore.  He  has  put  his  finger  on  the 
secret  of  Stevenson's  magic  power  —  the  application 
of  the  simplest  and  most  realistic  means  to  the  most 
complicated  and  inexistent  subjects.  Unquestion- 
ably this  is  Stevenson's  literary  process. 

It  was  M.  Schwob,  also,  who  presented  George 
Meredith    to    the    French    public.      In   addition    he 


192  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

translated  "  Moll  Flanders  "  into  French.  I  wished 
he  had  prefaced  it  with  George  Borrow's  fine  ap- 
preciation of  the  book,  which  is  to  be  found  in 
"  Lavengro."  These  are  M.  Schwob's  minor  virt- 
ues, but  they  will  be  accounted  to  him  for  right- 
eousness, even  though  the  world  prefers  "  Cceur 
Double  "  and  "  Le   Livre  de  Monelle." 

The  Erasmian  quality  of  Marcel  Schwob's  work 
is  more  conspicuous  of  course  in  his  colloquies. 
As  Erasmus  summed  up  the  thought  of  his  age 
in  those  conversations  which  are  now  too  much 
neglected  — -  given  over  indeed  to  lads  to  whet  their 
Latinity  on  —  M.  Schwob  has  in  his  dialogues 
netted  the  more  lawless  thought  of  our  own  day. 
Until  he  brought  it  back  to  modishness  the  col- 
loquy had  vanished  from  modern  literature.  Like 
the  fashion  of  linking  a  series  of  letters  into  a  novel, 
it  is  a  not  wholly  unartificial  form.  Indeed,  even 
Erasmus  felt  the  need  of  apologizing  for  it.  "In 
these  troubled  and  violent  times,"  he  said,  "  it 
would  not  be  prudent  to  send  this  book  out  with- 
out furnishing  it  with  an  escort."  His  plea  for  the 
utility  of  colloquies  may  stand  for  M.  Schwob's 
apologia.  How  efficient  an  art-form  the  colloquy 
is  in  the  hands  of  a  master,  you  may  learn  from 
"  L' Amour."  The  conversation  is  carried  on  by 
Hylas,  the  actor,  Rodion  RaskolnikofF  (Dos- 
toiewsky's  hero),  Herr  Baccalaureus,  and  Sir  Wil- 
loughby   Patterne    (of  "  The    Egoist ").     Can  you 


THE  NEW  ERASMUS  193 

imagine  a  more  delightful  conversation  ?  And  it  is 
carried  on  lightly,  with  faint  touches  of  irony  and 
joyous  mystifying  excursions  into  erudition,  quite 
in  the  best  Erasmian  manner.  In  fact,  to  one  who 
wishes  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Marcel  Schwob, 
I  would  recommend  "  Spicilege,"  wherein  may  be 
found  not  only  the  dialogues,  but  the  best  study  of 
Francois  Villon  ever  made. 


Naturism  and  Saint-Georges 
de  Bouhe'lier 

"Terre  divine  !  nourrice  de  mon  ame  !  " 

AMONG  the  young  writers  M.  de  Bouhelier 
has  a  vaguely  pontifical  position.  He  is 
"the  High  Priest  of  Naturism.  Before  he 
was  twenty  years  of  age  he  had  published  three 
books  and  established  a  new  school.  Round  his 
name  and  round  his  theories  there  has  grown  up  a 
literature  by  no  means  negligible.  A  monthly 
review  of  some  importance  is  devoted  to  his  ideas. 
His  fellows  call  him  The  Sage,  even  as  there  were 
those  (including  Sadakichi  Hartmann)  who  called 
Walt  Whitman  master.  He  is  a  poet,  but  his  work 
is  too  unsettled  to  bring  it  within  the  present  range 
of  criticism.  His  theories,  however,  are  a  very  im- 
portant part  of  modern  French  literature.  By  a  sort 
of  premeditated  hazard  I  have  mentioned  Whitman's 
name.  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  show  that  he  (and 
not  M.  de  Bouhelier)  is  the  creator  of  this  new 
movement  —  the  most  important  since  the  rise  of 
the  Zolaists  —  in  modern  letters. 

Romanticism  died  hard ;  it  lingered  longest,  per- 
haps, in  the  pale  fictions  of  Feuillet  and  Merimee ; 

194 


NATURISM  AND  DE  BOUHELIER       195 

but  in  the  end  it  gave  way  before  the  scientific  spirit. 
In  art  as  in  life  the  fashion  was  all  for  the  sceptical 
and  critical  attitude.  Literature  began  to  be  ex- 
pressed in  terms  of  science.  iEsthetic  realism  was 
the  direct  and  inevitable  outcome  of  the  scientific 
realism  of  the  day.  Zola  was  the  complement  of 
Darwin.  The  mania  for  cataloguing  individuals  and 
phenomena  seized  upon  writers  and  painters  alike. 
The  grave  folly  of  exactitude  was  to  find  its  most 
impudent  illustration  in  Huysmans,  who  transcribed 
the  catalogues  of  perfumers  and  paper-makers. 

"  Often,"  said  Plato  on  a  notable  occasion,  "  I 
have  been  troubled  with  the  thought  that  what  is 
true  of  certain  things  must  be  true  of  all." 

The  thought  that  troubled  Plato  is  the  axiom  of 
the  modern  speculation  that  poses  as  science.  Data 
—  statistics  —  documents  ;  an  entire  generation 
wasted  its  energies  in  picking  up  these  coriander 
seeds.  It  was  inevitable  that  the  revolt  should 
come.  It  was  a  revolt  not  against  the  conclusions 
of  the  scientists,  but  against  the  scientific  method  in 
art.  The  young  thinkers  took  refuge  in  neo-pagan- 
ism,  in  Buddhism,  in  egoism,  in  Satanism,  in  arid 
dreams  of  art  for  art  and  more  futile  dreams  of  art 
as  a  social  redeemer ;  and  each  new  movement  was 
but  a  revolt  against  aesthetic  realism  and  a  fierce  cru- 
sade for  the  ideal.  Flaubert  had  urged  that  art 
should  be  merely  a  mirror  of  external  life ;  Zola 
considered  it  merely  a  chapter  of  natural  history. 


196  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Emerson,  who  had  the  habit  of  loose  thinking  that 
characterizes  the  sermonizing  man,  declared  that  the 
very  sublimity  of  nature  determines  the  inferiority 
of  art  and  proclaimed  —  without  much  appositeness 
—  that  the  flower  is  more  beautiful  than  the  idyl, 
the  moss  more  beautiful  than  the  eclogue.  Spencer, 
with  more  destructive  logic,  announced  that  the  poet 
was  only  a  contingent  being,  in  no  manner  indispen- 
sable, and  corresponding  to  the  artificial  needs  of 
luxury  and  frivolity.  It  is  impossible  to  shun  the 
conclusion  —  the  poet,  having  no  purpose  to  serve, 
must  in  time  become  as  extinct  as  the  great  auk. 
The  men  of  science  were  unanimous  in  prophesying 
this  extinction.  The  realistic  artists  acquiesced. 
They  claimed  only  the  dreary  privilege  of  standing 
at  the  bedside  and  taking  the  temperature  of  the 
moribund  poetry  of  life.  In  these  circumstances  it 
became  the  business  of  the  poet  to  justify  himself,  if 
such  a  thing  were  possible.  All  these  revolts  into 
frenetic  and  atavistic  idealism  were  attempts  at  justi- 
fication. They  did  not  quite  succeed ;  they  did  not 
wholly  fail.  Out  of  the  turmoil  and  white  tumult 
there  came  many  beautiful  poems  and  many  pages 
of  vital  prose.  But  this  could  not  be  the  end. 
What  the  age  needed  —  what  every  age  has  needed 
and  found  —  was  an  opportune  idealism  —  an  ideal- 
ism broad  enough  to  cover  the  multiple  scientific 
speculations  that  colored  the  minds  of  men.  It 
would  be  a  mistake  to  assume  that  this  situation  was 


NATURISM  AND  DE  BOUHELIER        197 

new  in  aesthetic  history.  Similar  periods  of  extreme 
mental  humility  and  timid  agnosticism  have  occurred 
again  and  again.  And  always,  as  each  period  rose 
to  its  climax,  there  has  entered  the  timely  and  op- 
portune idealist.  He  is  not  humble,  the  idealist; 
if  he  be  Plato  or  Porphyry,  Iamblichus  or  Kant  or 
Pater,  he  is  anything  but  humble.  He  enters 
proudly,  the  star  of  the  thinker  (like  a  Jewish  phy- 
lactery) between  his  brows,  bearing  the  wand  of 
Zarathushtra,  austere,  sibylline,  as  one  who  has  raised 
the  veil  of  Isis.  And  always  he  proclaims  :  "  The 
only  reality  is  thought." 

The  hyperbolic  manifestations  of  esteem  that 
greeted  de  Bouhelier  —  this  young  man  of  twenty 
—  meant  only  one  thing:  He  had  spoken  the 
timely  and  opportune  word.  The  message  he 
brought  had  been  long  expected ;  another  might 
have  spoken  it  —  but  in  France  another  did  not  — 
and  it  •  may  be  repeated  in  years  to  come  with  far 
greater  eloquence. 

The  word  naturism  (invented  by  M.  de  Putte, 
the  Belgian  critic,  I  believe)  is  perhaps  the  best 
that  could  be  found  to  describe  de  Bouhelier's  the- 
ory of  literature.  The  naturist  —  I  use  Maurice 
le  Blond's  words  —  is  opposed  to  the  naturalist  in 
that  he  prefers  emotion  to  observation  and  neglects 
the  individual  for  the  archetype.  Thus,  while  the 
naturalist  can  auscultate  and  record,  the  naturist 
can  create.     This  theory  goes   to   the  root  of  the 


198  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

matter.  It  recaptures  for  the  poet  his  lost  right  of 
the  lord  of  the  manor ;  he  may  create  and,  essen- 
tially, he  may  create  heroes. 

"  The  poet,"  de  Bouhelier  writes  in  his  enthusi- 
astic manner,  "  is  like  Love  itself.  He  lights  the 
way.  He  leads  each  soul  along  the  road  of  its  des- 
tiny and  reveals  to  it  angelic  treasures.  .  .  .  All 
men  do  not  possess  souls.  Some  have  lost  their 
souls.  It  is  for  these  that  the  poets  create.  Souls 
of  pirates  and  kings  and  laborers." 

The  mission  of  the  poet,  then,  is  to  create  heroic 
thoughts  —  to  sing — just  as  it  is  the  function  of 
women  to  be  beautiful  and  the  function  of  Pierrot 
to  be  white. 

"  The  poets  mingle  with  the  multitude  —  they 
may  be  of  the  people  —  they  may  be  drovers  or 
puddlers  or  conquerors  —  according  to  whether  they 
glorify  the  coal  or  the  sword.     They  interpret." 

I  might  summarize  de  Bouhelier's  thought  in 
these  words  :  The  work  of  art  should  be  a  mono- 
graph of  eternity.  That,  I  am  quite  well  aware,  is 
a  pompous  phrase,  but  it  is  not  meaningless.  Daily 
existence,  in  a  way,  parodies  eternal  life.  The  artist 
who  would  write  a  monograph  of  eternity  has  but 
to  discern  at  what  points  the  parody  touches  the 
original.  Permit  me  to  take  a  concrete  case.  I 
will  use  M.  le  Blond's  fine  illustration  of  the  peas- 
ant. When  the  naturist  studies  the  peasant  its  is 
not  in  his  thought  (which  is  self-centred)  nor  in  his 


NATURISM  AND  DE  BOUHELIER        199 

passions  (which  he  shares  with  but  one  or  two 
beings),  but  in  his  work  (which  is,  in  spite  of  all,  the 
centre  of  his  destiny),  for  then  the  peasant  becomes 
the  hero.  It  is  in  his  work  that,  grave  and  divine, 
he  communes  with  nature  in  its  seasons,  its  fruits 
and  fields,  and  that  he  enters  into  relations  with 
the  greatest  number  of  beings  and  elements.  He 
ceases,  in  realitv,  to  be  a  man,  to  become  at  the 
same  time  a  symbol  and  a  force. 

The  interest  of  the  naturist  is  not  in  the  actor, 
but  in  his  role.  Thus :  "  He  need  not  consider 
whether  the  artisans  are  contented  with  their  lots  — 
all  their  little  vain  turbulences  —  what  they  chatter 
to  each  other  as  they  weave  baskets  or  chip  stones. 
.  .   .    Their  attitude  interprets  them." 

The  mission  of  the  artist  is  to  reconstruct  arche- 
types ;  of  landscapes  he  builds  paradises  ;  he  resur- 
rects the  Dieu-Mort,  whose  "  Hie  jacet "  is  written 
in  every  man's  heart.  In  this  sense  he  does  not 
create ;  "  the  eurhythm  of  nature  determines  the 
rhythm  of  his  harmonies.  It  is  not  the  poet  who 
creates  the  rhythm,  but  it  is  the  essential  rhythm 
of  things  that  scans  and  directs  the  poet.  .  .  .  Ah  ! 
who  will  say  what  laws  of  hydraulics,  attraction, 
repulsion,  make  necessary  such  a  song,  and  this 
eclogue  and  that  mighty  statue  ?  "  Art  is  not  nature 
seen  across  a  temperament ;  it  is  nature  volatilizing 
herself  in  the  temperament  of  poet,  painter,  or  mu- 
sician. 


200  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

And  here,  at  last,  the  naturism  of  the  young 
French  poet  reaches  the  broad  pantheism  of  Walt 
Whitman. 

De  Bouhelier's  proselytism  has,  in  the  main, 
gathered  round  what  he  terms  the  "  idea  of  hero- 
ism." It  would  be  an  error  to  confound  the 
naturistic  "  hero  "  with  the  popular  hero,  who  dis- 
tinguishes himself  by  adventurous  enterprises  and 
prodigious  exploits.  The  idea  of  heroism  that 
de  Bouhelier  wishes  to  awaken  in  the  hearts  of  men 
is  less  special.  His  hero  would  be  the  living  repre- 
sentative of  an  idea,  an  emotion.  Thus  the  artist 
who  expresses  the  sensibility  of  a  being  or  a  flower 
is  as  heroic  as  the  laborer  who  spends  himself  in 
tilling  the  soil,  or  the  sailor,  whom  the  sea  has 
shaped  into  un  aspect  de  Dieu.  The  heroic  man  is 
he  who  accomplishes  his  destiny  —  divinely.  (Need 
I  say  this  is  Walt  Whitman  ?)  Heroism  is  the 
appanage  not  only  of  the  soldier  and  the  martyr, 
but  "  of  all  the  humble,  who  do  nothing  day  by 
day  except  accomplish  their  destinies." 

Is  this  not  that  modern  mysticism,  at  once 
human  and  pagan,  of  which  Whitman  was  the  pre- 
cursor? And  Whitman,  too,  might  have  written 
this  note,  which  you  will  find  in  "  Destin  "  :  "  In 
this  book  I  speak  often  of  God.  Let  it  be  under- 
stood that  I  employ  the  word  only  to  make  a 
definite  allusion  to  the  domination  of  the  soil,  to 
the  trajectory  of  the  stars  not  less  than  to  the  sway- 


NATURISM  AND  DE  BOUHfiLIER        201 

ing  of  the  grasses  and  the  heavy  pulse  of  the  sea  on 
the  sand.  So  the  word,  to  my  mind,  is  worth  but 
a  metaphor."  This  is  the  vertiginous  pantheism 
of  Whitman.  That  you  may  know  I  am  not 
quoting  from  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  read  these  words 
in  the  French  :  "  Froides  montagnes  qui  contenez 
de  l'eau  et  des  metaux,  de  la  craie  et  des  bruyeres 
roses,  tumulte  ecumeux  des  sauvages  torrents,  cam- 
pagnes  marecageuses  d'ou  se  levent  les  cigognes,  6 
coteaux,  6  fontaines,  vous  tous  en  qui  palpitent  des 
parcelles  de  mon  etre,  comme  sur  la  blanche  mer  a 
midi  les  hautes  scintillations  solaires  !  C'est  de  votre 
essentielle  substance  que  je  me  sculpterai  avec  sua- 
vite.  Je  desire  composer  mon  corps  de  la  seve  des 
pins  resineux  et  des  rouges  argiles  qui  nourrissent 
les  arbres.  Mes  membres  s'assouplirent  sous  les 
vents." 

De  Bouhelier's  chief  distinction  is  not  that  he  is 
the  French  evangelist  of  this  antique  and  maternal 
doctrine ;  others  have  fought  that  fight ;  but  to  him 
one  must  give  the  credit  of  having  brought  it  into 
the  thought  and  literature  of  the  day.  He  laid 
salutary  emphasis  upon  the  old  truth  that  "  not  the 
white  vesture  and  the  shaven  beard  make  the  ser- 
vant of  Isis."  In  carrying  out  his  theories  he  has 
always  been  the  opportunist.  In  his  tragedies  he 
has  not  gone  to  legend  or  allegory.  To  artificial 
palaces  and  hypothetical  landscapes  he  has  preferred 
the  markets  and  foundries,  the  shops  and  factories, 


202  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

finding  in  them  the  "  temple  of  nature "  in  which 
modern  life  attains  its  only  hour  of  worship.  He 
meets  the  realist  on  his  own  chosen  ground.  He 
takes  up  the  scientist's  gauge  —  and  gives  him 
choice  of  position. 


Once  I  wrote :  "  Modern  French  literature  is 
largely  a  creation  of  Poe."  Perhaps  the  desire  to 
italicize  a  familiar  thought  led  me  into  a  slight, 
though  uncritical,  exaggeration.  I  should  have  no 
qualification  to  make,  had  I  said :  "  Modern  French 
literature  is  largely  a  creation  of  Poe  and  Whit- 
man." 


Men   of  Letters    and    Anarchy 


INSTINCTIVELY  one  feels  a  sort  of  im- 
patient contempt  for  the  theory  that  requires 
the  emphasis  of  murder.  An  explosion  of  picric 
acid  adds  no  more  strength  to  an  argument  than  an 
oath  does.  The  crude  violence  of  words,  which  is 
the  chief  defect  of  all  reformers,  stands  in  the  way 
of  any  clear  understanding  of  the  theory  of  latter- 
day  anarchy.  Even  serene  and  thoughtful  men, 
like  Octave  Mirbeau  and  Maurice  Barres,  have  a 
tendency  to  scream,  when  you  touch  them  on  their 
theories. 

The  anarchist,  who  believes  in  the  "  propaganda 
by  deeds"  —  and  lives  up  to  his  faith — is  a  prod- 
uct of  the  discontent  which  is  bred  of  insufficient 
knowledge.  He  has  failed  to  discern  that  the  ele- 
mentary laws  never  apologize.  He  looks  out  on 
the  angry  and  vehement  play  of  causes  with  a  dull 
hatred  —  as  a  sea-sick  girl  watches  the  waves.  As 
social  phenomena  the  Henrys,  Caserios,  Bour- 
dains,  Lucchenis,  are  interesting  rather  than  instruc- 
tive. But  behind  these  dark  and  dangerous  fanatic 
are  other  men  —  the  poets  and  philosophers, 
writers  and  novelists  of  anarchy.  Elisee  R 
one  of  the  most  learned  men  of  the  day,  a 

203 


W:  Mi  f 


204  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

pher  of  excellent  repute,  Prince  Kropotkin,  a  scien- 
tist and  a  renegade  to  the  obligations  of  his  royal 
descent,  Louise  Michel,  a  poetess  whom  Hugo 
praised  and,  as  well,  the  red  nun  of  murder  and 
revolt,  the  Count  Malatesta,  these,  and  a  score  of 
the  most  influential  men  of  letters  in  France  and 
Germany,  are  the  real  apostles  of  anarchy.  Theirs 
is  not  the  anarchy  of  despair,  but  the  anarchy  of 
even  more  fatuous  optimism.  They  it  is  who  have 
builded  the  house.  But  they  no  longer  sit  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  and  all  about  the  board  is  a  motley 
mob  of  hereditary  criminals,  mattoids,  fanatics  and 
epileptoids. 

I  once  said  that  anarchy  is  the  theory  that  society 
should  be  blown  up  for  refusing  to  accept  a  propo- 
sition that  has  never  been  laid  before  it.  That  is 
no  longer  true.  The  proposition  has  been  laid 
down  —  vaguely  if  you  will,  but  with  a  great  deal 
of  smoky  eloquence. 

Within  the  last  eight  years  the  literature  of  an- 
archy has  swelled  to  a  gross  flood.  It  has  swept 
along  with  it  scores  of  the  earnest  and  fanciful  young 
men  of  the  day.  Monsieur  Leon  Deschamps,  the 
editor  of  La  Plume  —  a  magazine  that  stands  for 
the  new  art  and  literature  of  Paris  —  said  the  other 
day  that  anarchy  was  no  longer  a  social  formula,  but 
a  complete  philosophy.  He  and  his  fellows  are 
preaching  absolute  individualism.  If  Nietzsche  is 
not   their   saint,   it   is   merely  because   they  cannot 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  AND  ANARCHY     205 

read  German.     The  young  literature  has  acclaimed 
the  bomb-throwers  and  justified  the  stabbers. 

M.  Laurent  Tailhade,  a  delicate  poet,  an  admi- 
rable critic  of  art,  spoke  lightly  of  Vaillant's  crime, 
as  a  "  fine  gesture."  Stuart  Merrill,  the  American 
poet  who  has  elected  to  write  in  French,  admired 
the  phrase  so  much  that  he  turned  anarchist  himself. 
As  far  as  the  young  writers  of  France  are  concerned 
anarchy  is  merely  the  development  of  the  idealism 
of  the  day.  Their  revolt  is  abstract  and  largely 
sentimental.  When  M.  Gabriel  Randon  sang  the 
"  Litanies  of  Dynamite  "  he  was  in  reality  inspired 
by  as  pure  a  love  for  humanity  as  that  of  the  young 
Shelley.  Andre  Ibels,  the  founder  of  the  Revue 
Libertaire^  is  a  mystic  who  dreams  of  absolute 
freedom  for  all  —  that  beautiful  and  dangerous 
dream.  One  and  all  they  are  victims  of  an  altruism 
that  is  neither  to  hold  nor  to  bind.  Not  one  of 
them  is  a  serious  student  of  social  economics.  The 
picturesqueness  —  if  I  may  use  the  word  —  of 
anarchy  appeals  to  them.  They  see  in  it  a  war  of 
the  few  against  the  many,  of  the  weak  against  the 
strong,  of  the  individual  against  a  strong  and  cruel 
government.  They  live  in  the  dream  of  an  anar- 
chistic society,  in  which  all  men  shall  be  intelligent 
and  naturally  good,  and  laws  and  dogmas  shall  be  su- 
perfluous. "  I  conceive  a  state  of  society  so  perfect," 
said  M.  Barres,  "  that  the  very  thought  of  Evil  will 
be  intolerable  to  man."     Alphonse    Rette  in  con- 


206  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

tendons,  articles  and  dithyrambic  poems  has  pictured 
that  state  of  society  which  Dante  deemed  possible 
only  in  Paradise.  Remy  de  Gourmont  thunders 
against  the  evils  of  the  day  in  many  a  splendidly 
indignant  page.  Jean  Graves  and  Zo  d'Axa  go 
serenely  to  prison  for  ideas  they  do  not  understand. 

Sentimentalists  and  dreamers. 

They  see  the  cruelty  and  misery  of  life  in  a 
modern  city  ;  the  pathos  of  suffering  touches  them  ; 
the  woman  who  begs  for  bread  or  gains  it  by  a 
shame  more  pitiful  than  beggary,  the  outcast  child 
slinking  in  the  dark  streets,  the  laborer  who  cannot 
even  find  work  —  these  are  so  many  sign  posts, 
pointing  them  to  anarchy.  With  a  man  like  Zo 
d'Axa  it  was  an  even  chance  whether  he  turned 
missionary  or  anarchist.  In  the  sixteenth  century 
he  would  have  been  an  adventurer.  His  true  name 
is  Galland  de  Perouse.  He  served  in  the  Chasseurs 
cTAfrique ;  he  came  up  to  Paris  and  wrote  patriotic 
songs,  and  was  anything  but  an  anarchist  —  this 
swaggering  aristocrat.  While  travelling  in  Italy  he 
was  accused  of  insulting  the  Empress  of  Germany. 
It  made  an  anarchist  of  him.  He  erected  the  prov- 
erb that  "  the  cat  may  look  at  the  king "  into  a 
political  theory.  He  founded  En  Dehors  (Outside), 
a  journal  of  revolt.  He  declared  for  individualism 
and  against  everything  that  could  limit  it  —  church, 
country,  military  system.  He  was  a  man  of  fort- 
une and  he  gave  it  to  the  "  cause."     He  owned  a 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  AND  ANARCHY      207 

building  in  the  Avenue  de  I'Alma,  and  he  let  it,  rent 
free,  to  a  printer,  who  got  out  the  paper  by  way 
of  return.  Anarchists  like  Malato,  the  renegade 
priest,  Abbe  Jouet,  Sebastian  Faure,  flocked  to  it. 
The  journal  caught  the  fancy  of  the  young  men  of 
letters.  In  1891,  I  remember,  there  were  among 
the  contributors  Henri  de  Regnier,  Viele-Griffin 
Herold,  Bernard- Lazare,  Paul  Adam,  Quillard  — 
all  of  whom  are  conspicuous  in  French  literature. 
This  paper  was  condemned  and  Zo  d'Axa  was  in- 
dicted. He  fled  to  the  East  and  was  retaken  (not 
quite  legally)  in  the  British  consulate  in  Jaffa.  And 
his  theory  that  the  cat  may  look  at  the  king  was 
dignified  by  "martyrdom."  He  served  his  time  at 
Ste.  Pelagie. 

It  was  this  man  and  his  friend  Octave  Mirbeau 
who  gave  anarchy  its  literary  prestige.  A  few 
weeks  after  the  publication  of  his  "  CaLvaire "  I 
heard  Mirbeau  say :  "  I  have  stripped  war  of  its 
heroism,"  but  he  had  done  more  than  make  the 
idea  of  war  inglorious,  he  had  substituted  for  it 
the  unreasoning  destruction  of  dynamite.  He  pro- 
claimed as  heroes  those  whom  it  had  been  the  habit 
to  consider  plain  assassins.  Henri  Mazel  took  up 
the  work.  He  tricked  out  the  theory  in  purple 
metaphors  and  golden  words.  In  praising  his  work 
the  Mercure  de  France  —  the  oldest  and  best  literary 
review  in  France  —  said  frankly :  "  We  are  all  an- 
archists, thank  God !  " 


208  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

It  is  almost  true.  Hardly  one  of  the  young 
writers  of  France  has  not  shot  his  arrow  at  society. 
The  strongest  prose-writer  of  them  all,  Paul  Adam, 
has  taught  anarchy  in  a  dozen  volumes.  At  the 
trial  of  Jean  Graves  he  came  into  court  to  declare 
himself  an  anarchist  —  all  in  a  spirit  of  sheer  bra- 
vado. In  his  "  Le  Triomphe  des  Mediocres,"  he 
says :  "  The  incidents  in  Spain,  the  epopees  of 
Vaillant  and  Emile  Henry,  of  other  companions, 
warn  the  Powers  of  the  World  that  the  anarchists 
will  not  yield  to  their  laws.  For  Pallas  shot,  seven 
hundred  victims  of  dynamite,  a  city  in  flames, — 
that  is  what  weighs  down  the  other  scale  of  justice, 
the  scale  of  the  people.  Let  it  be  understood," 
he  says,  "  we  live  in  a  state  of  war.  One  part  of 
society  starves  the  other,  forces  it  by  poverty  to 
suicide  or  merciless  toil.  The  laborer,  on  the 
threshold  of  death,  turns  at  last,  arms  himself  and 
takes  vengeance." 

All  this  and  a  great  deal  more  to  the  same  pur- 
port, with  much  rhetoric  of  "  soldiers  of  despair " 
and  the  "  Black  Angel  of  Anarchy."  Now  I  know 
M.  Adam.  He  is  a  brilliant  writer,  a  student,  a 
philanthropist,  an  art-lover  and  lover  of  life  ;  in  ele- 
gant Paris  he  lives  elegantly  ;  and  I  know  that  all 
this  revolutionary  eloquence  is  merely  a  feu  £  arti- 
fice. He  is  a  victim  of  his  vocabulary.  There  are 
so  many  fine  things  to  be  said  about  anarchy  that 
he,    no    more    than    Stuart    Merrill    and     Maurice 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  AND  ANARCHY      209 

Barres,  can  resist  the  temptation  to  turn  anarchist 
for  the  sake  of  saying  them.  Almost  all  of  us  have 
been  dragged  out  over  our  depth  by  vehement 
words.  All  of  us  have  been  voung  enough  to  write 
Rette's  "  Idylle  Diabolique,"  with  its  masterful  "  I 
deny  and  I  revolt !  " 

If  you  ask  any  one  of  these  leaders  of  anarchic 
thought  if  they  believe  in  the  propaganda  by  deeds 
—  the  blunt  argument  of  dyamite,  the  polemics  of 
knives  and  picric  acid  —  they  will  assure  you  that 
they  do  not.  Their  anarchy  is  purely  literary, 
purely  decorative,  artistic,  sentimental.  Zo  d'Axa 
to  be  sure  once  affirmed  the  "joy  ot  action."  But 
for  the  others  the  bomb-thrower  and  assassin  — 
even  though  he  kill  royalty  —  is  a  criminal ;  thev 
will  argue  that  he  is  not  the  only  criminal,  and  that 
the  complicity  of  society  must  be  taken  into  ac- 
count, but  they  do  not  applaud  his  crime.  ("There 
are  a  thousand  ways  ot  being  an  anarchist ;  I  am 
an  anarchist  after  Victor  Hugo  and  Pascal,"  said 
Ajalbert.) 

They  are  young  men  and  ardent.  They  are 
poets,  painters,  novelists  or  critics.  Most  of  them 
are  men  of  fortune  and  family.  All  of  them  are 
successful  men.  Their  art  has  brought  them  fame. 
They  are  idealists  and  dreamers  and  philanthro- 
pists. They  turn  from  a  dark  and  troubled  present 
to  a  future  all  rose.  In  a  tragic  night  they  await 
the  "sunrise  of  fraternal  love."  Their  anarchic 
paeans  are  inspired  solely  by  altruism,  by  pity  for 


210  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

the  "  oppressed,  who  are  the  just."  All  this  one 
may  admit  These  shining  poets  and  publicists  are 
neither  rogues  nor  assassins. 

And  yet  by  reason  of  their  very  sincerity  and 
their  eloquence  they  are  the  most  dangerous  men  of 
the  day.     They  have  made  anarchy  a  splendid  ideal 

—  instead  of  the  brutal  and  meaningless  discontent 
it  was.  They  have  gilded  plain  ruffians  like  Rava- 
chol  and  Caserio  with  the  halo  of  martyrdom. 

For  them  anarchy  is  a  literary  toy. 

But  what  of  the  feather-brained  wretches  who 
believe  in  all  these  fine  phrases  and  carry  out  the 
doctrine  of  social  warfare  to  its  logical  and  bloody 
conclusion  r  Whose  is  the  responsibility  ?  Who 
is  the  greater  criminal  ?  Luccheni  or  the  silken 
poet  who  set  him  on  ? 

The  books  of  Bernard- Lazare,  Hamon,  Mirbeau, 
Adam,  are  scattered  broadcast  through  France  and 
Italy.  They  are  the  text-books  —  perilously  elo- 
quent—  of  anarchv.  They  are  firebrands  in  the 
hands  of  weak-minded  rogues,  of  dark  fanatics,  of 
epileptic  egoists.  Not  long  ago  I  had  a  talk  with 
the  Count  Malatesta,  the  leader  of  the  Italian  anar- 
chists. Suavely,  gently  in  his  aristocratic  way,  he 
deplored  the  use  of  bombs  and  the  murder  of 
women.  And  yet  he  has  given  his  time  and  fort- 
une to  educating  the  Lucchenis  up  to  assassination. 

They  have  much  to  answer  for,  who  have  made 
literature  the  handmaid  and  mouthpiece  of  anarchy 

—  the  chaperon  of  red  murder  and  revolt. 


The   New  Criticism 


THERE  are  books  and  books,  but  it  is  not 
often  that  one  finds  a  book  which  is  ab- 
solutely typical  ot  a  generation.  Paul 
Bourget's  "  Essays  on  Contemporary  Psychology," 
which  appeared  in  1883,  was  a  book  of  this  sort. 
It  depicted  with  perfect  clearness  the  ways  of 
thought  and  habits  or  emotion  —  Fetat  (Tame,  as 
the  phrase  goes  —  of  the  men  and  women  of  that 
day.  By  way  of  parallel,  or  at  all  events  of  sequel 
to  M.  Bourget's  masterly  book,  is  the  fantastic  vol- 
ume which  has  appeared  under  the  title  (more  than 
a  trifle  fantastic),  "  The  Nights,  the  Ennuis  and  the 
Souls  of  our  Most  Notorious  Contemporaries." 
Its  author  is   M.  La  Jeunesse. 

I  had  always  fancied  that  the  name  was  a  pseudo- 
nym—  a  symbol,  perhaps,  for  its  author  is  a  stren- 
uous upholder  not  only  of  youth,  but  of  all  that  is 
meant  in  art  and  letters  by  la  jeunesse.  But  that 
was  all  wrong.  When  I  met  this  precocious  and 
sceptical  young  man,  who  looks  upon  his  genera- 
tion so  shrewdly  through  an  eyeglass,  I  learned 
that  nature  —  who  has  a  whimsical  humor  now  and 
then  —  had  given  him  this  apt  name.  He  signs 
himself  Ernest  La  Jeunesse. 


2i2  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Although,  like  most  witty  Parisians,  he  was  born 
in  the  provinces,  yet  he  represents,  better  than  any 
man  of  the  day,  this  city,  at  once  beautiful  and  hor- 
rible. He  is,  as  M.  Larroumet  smartly  said  the 
other  day,  "  Gavrocbe  elev'e  a  Condor  cet."  He  stands 
for  the  "  youth  "  of  Paris  ;  he  speaks  for  the  young 
men,  these  young  men  who  have  journeyed  so  far 
from  the  fictitious  Latin  Quarter  created  by  Henri 
Murger  (who  could  not  write  French)  and  Du 
Maurier  (who  could  not  write  English).  The 
young  generation  frequents  literary  taverns,  edits 
"  new  "  reviews,  visits  the  "  free  theatre,"  loves  the 
sketches  of  Forain  and  the  vicious  and  visionary 
pastels  of  Cheret,  dines  with  girls  who  look  like 
angels  out  of  Botticelli  and  dress  like  Cleo  de 
Merode,  is  expert  in  all  the  snobbishness  of  litera- 
ture and  the  priggishness  of  art,  knows  much  and 
admires  little. 

If  you  remember  Bourget's  keenly  intellectual 
and  eminently  sympathetic  studies  of  the  men  who 
had  influenced  the  youth  of  his  day,  you  will  find  a 
piquant  surprise  in  the  mocking  book  which  I  have 
named  as  worthy  of  a  place  beside  your  copy  of 
"  Essais  de  Psychologie  Contemporaine."  Here 
there  is  no  sympathy,  no  respect ;  everywhere  there 
is  irony  —  that  irony  which  Renan  called  the  "  con- 
solation of  the  just."  The  very  title  is  a  mockery. 
Every  page  affirms  it.  Read  these  few  phrases  from 
the  preface :   tc  This  book  will  be  the  book  which 


THE  NEW  CRITICISM  213 

most  strictly  and  most  outrageously  respects  the 
Truth,"  and  then,  "  My  little  voyage  is  a  little  sin- 
cere voyage  —  of  a  demi-sincerity  very  superior  to 
the  vulgar  sincerity,  and  of  a  truth  far  superior  to 
the  current  truth,  since  it  is  not  the  truth  of  all." 

Even  I,  who  am  apt  in  sincerity,  never  imagined 
the  roguish  subtlety  of  this  demi-sincerity. 

And  this  is  the  note  of  the  book.  In  the  spec- 
tacle of  contemporary  literature  M.  La  Jeunesse  has 
seen  an  immense  and  ironic  drollery.  And  he  has 
amused  himself. 

"  I  might  have  merely  given  my  opinion  on  these 
writers,"  he  says,  "  it  is  merely  my  modesty  that 
stands  in  the  way  —  what  I  love  in  them  is  their 
foibles,  their  weaknesses,  their  misery,  and  it  pleases 
me  to  humiliate  myself  in  them,  and,  in  turn,  to 
flagellate  myself,  to  crown  myself  with  their  thorns, 
to  ulcerate  myself  with  their  woes.  Thus  I  gain 
the  supreme  pleasure  of  tasting  in  these  pure  tort- 
ures the  chastisement  of  their  sins  —  without  hav- 
ing the  trouble  of  committing  the  sins."  And  his 
object  is  the  pleasant  one  of  "  delivering  the  young 
men  of  this  epoch  from  these  deliciously  tyrannic 
masters." 

M.  La  Jeunesse  —  he  has  read  prodigiously;  he 
has  swallowed  a  library ;  it  is  the  chief  defect  of 
the  intellectual  men  of  the  day  that  they  know  too 
much. 

Among  those  who  figure  in  this  book  are  Ana- 


2i4  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

tole  France,  Pierre  Loti,  Paul  Bourget,  Daudet, 
Zola,  Coppee,  Huysmans,  Paul  Hervieu,  Roche- 
fort,  Maeterlinck,  Prevost,  Richepin  and  many 
others  ! 

M.  La  Jeunesse  does  not  analyze  them.  He 
paints  them.  He  parodies  them.  And  yet  this  is 
no  mere  imitative  trick.  His  originality  is  etourdis- 
sante.  And  "  Les  Nuits,  les  Ennuis,  et  les  Ames  de 
nos  plus  Notoires  Contemporains  "  initiates  a  new 
form  of  criticism.  Of  serious  critics,  like  Brunetiere 
and  (may  I  say  it  ?)  Hamilton  Mabie,  we  are  weary  ; 
we  are  sick  too  of  the  fluent  impressionism  of  Le- 
maitre  and  George  Bernard  Shaw.  And  the  new 
criticism  of  M.  La  Jeunesse  and  Maurice  Barres, 
even  though  it  be  in  the  way  of  fantastic  exaggera- 
tion, is  still  criticism  in  that  it  expresses  a  judgment. 
And  this  judgment  ?  M.  La  Jeunesse  has  few  good 
words  for  the  old;  fewer  still  for  the  young.  In 
other  decades  the  young  formed  "  schools  "  ;  to-day 
they  are  individualists ;  of  old  they  had  chiefs ; 
to-day  they  have  deposed  and  discrowned  them  ;  in 
other  days  they  were  strenuously  gay ;  now  they 
are  dark  and  sad.  And  in  this  sadness  and  egotism 
La  Jeunesse  sees  a  fault  as  crying  as  the  sin  of  the 
Parnassians  and  Symbolists. 

I  wish  to  refer  you  to  the  "  Prayer  of  Anatole 
France  "  and  the  interview  Paul  Bourget  had  with 
"certain  indiscreet  phantoms";  but  in  order  to 
give  you  an  idea  of  this  book  of  incisive  whimsies  I 


THE  NEW  CRITICISM  215 

cannot  do  better  than  extract  a  few  lines  from  the 
"  Apologia  of  M.  Emile  Zola  "  : 

"Without  looking  at  him,  without  seeing  him, 
M.  Zola  turned  toward  his  visitor  and,  at  once, 
without  pause,  without  hesitation,  without  malice, 
without  reflection,  without  effort,  without  thought, 
as  he  writes,  he  said :  c  Ah  !  ah  !  another  interview 
—  another  interviewer?  But  what  do  you  want? 
And  why  an  interview?  Have  my  interviews  ever 
taught  anything  ?  And  why  bother  a  poor  man  ? 
Because  I  am  sweet-tempered,  because  I  talk ! 
Belle  affaire !  And  you  might  so  easily  do  some- 
thing else,  write  a  book,  for  instance,  que  sais-je  ? 
Yes,  I  talk.  And  I  talk  in  order  not  to  disoblige 
you  and  also  to  rest  myself.  Do  not  question  me 
about  "  Lourdes " ;  do  not  question  me  about 
"  Paris."  I  am  a  poor  man.  I  am  an  honest  man. 
I  write  books.  I  have  told  your  elders  how  I 
write  them,  at  what  hour,  how  many  lines  an  hour, 
how  many  strokes  a  line,  how  many  ideas  a  hecto- 
metre, how  much  ink  a  metaphor.  I  shall  not  re- 
peat these  details.  They  belong  to  history.  I 
will,  if  you  wish,  confide  far  stranger  things  to  you. 
I  will  tell  you,  then  —  sans  plus  —  why  I  have 
written  books. 

"  *  My  childhood  ?  You  know  it,  all  the  world 
knows  it,  and  my  youth  and  my  struggle  and  my 
misery  — 

ifiEh  bien,  all  that  is  not  true.      Inventions  — 


2i 6  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

they  are  all  inventions.  And  —  mark  this  well, 
Monsieur  —  had  I  had  a  childhood,  had  I  had  a 
youth,  I  should  never  have  published  a  line.  I  was 
born,  then,  at  25  or  30  years  of  age,  at  Nimes,  or 
St.  Denis,  or  Genes  —  it  does  not  matter.  The 
important  part  is  —  [he  lowered  his  voice  as  though 
he  were  speaking  of  the  Academy]  —  is  not  to  let 
men  know  that  I  have  prepared  the  way  for  my 
successes,  worked,  travailed,  suffered  as  other  men. 
No.  I  am  not  a  man.  What  am  I  ?  A  god, 
doubtless,  or  —  this  is  certain  —  an  extra-terrestrial 
power.   .  .   . 

"  *  I  think  then,  a  long  time,  very  long.  ...  I 
invented  men  !  Yes.  I  invented  them.  And  later 
I  invented  drunkenness,  la  bourgeoisie,  the  markets, 
painting,  the  Stock  Exchange,  churches,  science. 
Who,  before  me,  had  entered  into  the  existence  of 
men  ?  Who  had  suspected  their  mystery  and  their 
power,  their  vices,  their  simplicity,  their  misery  ? '  " 

And  it  is  in  this  way  that  M.  La  Jeunesse  ex- 
poses lightly,  and  withal  grimly,  the  soul  of  Emile 
Zola,  maker  of  men  and  writer  of  books.  Is  it  not 
Zola? 

It  is  parody,  as  you  say,  but  how  fine  is  the 
parody,  how  critical  and  intimate  ! 

And  then  Maurice  Maeterlinck  :  — 

The  Belgian  writer  is  taken  at  the  moment  when 
he  is  engaged  in  composing  one  of  his  sweet  and 
faded  tragedies  ;  read  here  : 


THE  NEW  CRITICISM  217 

"  And  the  name  of  the  piece  was  l  The  Road.' 
...  A  road,  that  road,  with  that  moon  and  this 
sky  and  these  flowers  and  this  river.  On  this  road 
were  seats  which  were  thrones  and  the  seats  of 
indigent  old  men.  And  on  the  seats  of  the  indigent 
old  men  were  old  men  indigent,  blind,  deaf,  paralytic 
and  demented.  There  were  seven  seats  and  seven 
old  men.  Under  the  kiss  of  the  moon  the  seven 
old  men  seemed  to  wish  to  live  a  little  and  speak  a 
little.  The  voice  of  the  first  rose  as  from  afar : 
*  The  princess  is  very  capricious.  She  has  tresses 
of  April,  which  wander  over  her  neck  and  shoulders 
and  fall,  delicate  and  pretty,  over  her  arms  and 
fingers.  She  smiles,  the  capricious  princess,  and 
goes  with  dancing  steps  along  the  road  of  Silence.' 

"  The  voice  of  the  second  old  man  rises,  as  from 
afar  :  '  The  princess  is  very  grave.  She  has  October 
hair,  which  falls  about  her  straight  and  rests  upon 
her  melancholy  back.  Her  hands  are  crossed 
upon  her  meditative  breasts,  and  with  frozen  steps 
she  passes  along  the  broken  way.' 

"  The  voice  of  the  third  rose  as  from  afar :  *  The 
princess  is  very  serene.  She  has  tresses  of  June, 
which  flow  in  equal  waves  down  her  cheeks.  She 
has  unastonished  eyes  which  do  not  question. 
Tranquilly  she  passes  along  the  subtle  road.'  And 
the  other  old  men  said,  turn  in  turn,  in  far-off 
voices,  that  the  princess  was  languorous  and  August- 
tressed  ;  that  she  shuddered  and  had  the  tresses  of 


2i 8  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

November ;  that  she  was  very  sweet,  with  hair  of 
May,  uncertain  with  the  tresses  of  March. 

"And  the  road  is  empty,  intolerably  empty. 
And  each  of  the  seven  old  men  sees  passing  along 
the  road  treasures  that  darken  and  grow,  armies 
harmonious  and  strong,  with  sevenfold  music  of 
harps  and  viols  and  theorbos,  with  floating  veils  and 
suns  and  plants  and  souls. 

"  And  the  road  is  naked,  intolerably  naked. 
Then  there  come  along  the  road  princesses  and 
treasures  and  armies  and  musicians.  There  are 
apotheosis  and  enchantments,  miracle,  beauty  and 
gentleness.  And  watching  the  procession,  among 
the  virgins  and  gold,  the  voices  of  the  seven  old 
men  rise  dolorously,  despairing :  '  Oh !  there  is 
nothing  on  the  road  —  there  is  no  longer  anything 
on  the  road  !  '  And  the  procession  passes,  always 
richer  and  always  more  dolorous  rises  the  cry  of  the 
seven  old  men." 

And  M.  Maeterlinck  has  finished  his  piece. 

This,  I  take  it,  is  criticism,  of  an  extremely  subtle 
and  effective  sort ;  it  mirrors  —  in  a  glass  which 
distorts,  perhaps  —  the  intellectual  and  moral  grim- 
aces of  this  generation.  And  these  grimaces  only 
the  uncultured  person  can  neglect. 


"In  the  Gentlemanly  Interest" 

Hugues    Rebell 

HUGUES   REBELL;  he  is  the  pagan  and 
he  is  the  aristocrat. 
"  I  wish  to  play  with  this  life  that  has  been 
given   me,  in   all   its  beauty,  richness,  liberty,  ele- 
gance ;  je  suis  un  aristocrate." 

"  But  the  people,  M.  Rebell,  the  heirs  of  liberty, 
equality  and  fraternity  ?  " 

"  As  for  the  people  they  shall  have  bread  and 
games,  partem  et  circenses — but  first  of  all  close  the 
public  libraries  and  museums  to  them.  Thought 
is  an  aristocratic  pleasure ;  what  have  they  to  do 
with  thought?  Close  the  libraries,  whence  for  a 
hundred  years  the  canaille  have  filched  the  destiny 
and  thought  of  the  greatest  men.  I  love  the  peo- 
ple, just  as  I  love  the  horse,  the  yoked  oxen ;  and 
if  the  people  would  be  happy  after  their  kind,  let 
them  lead  the  lives  of  good,  industrious  animals. 
Let  them  love  and  labor  and  die,  between  the  two 
heavens  of  bread  and  the  circus.  The  only  cruelty 
is  in  developing  their  brains.  The  educated  peas- 
ant—  voire  Thomas    Carlyle  —  undergoes    all    the 


220  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

sufferings  of  the  trained  dog  that  climbs  dizzy  lad- 
ders and  leaps  shuddering  through  blazing  hoops. 
Let  him  keep  to  his  fields,  the  peasant,  and  the 
toiler  to  his  toil." 

And  so  he  swaggers  bravely  down  the  road  of  life, 
taking  the  wall  of  his  fellows,  beautiful,  jocund,  in- 
solent—  the  aristocrat  of  equalitarian  France.  His 
plumed  hat  takes  the  wind.  His  broad  cloak  bal- 
loons as  he  walks,  splendidly  purple. 

The  people  —  let  them  be  brave,  industrious, 
docile  animals. 

There  is  so  much  cant  of  the  essential  beauty  of 
the  low-browed  proletariat  in  these  days  that  the 
hidalgerie  of  men  like  Hugues  Rebell  is  not  wholly 
unpleasant  nor  all  untrue.  The  fatted  tradesmen 
and  the  lettered  peasant  are  the  pests  of  modern 
civilization.  They  take  the  wall.  They  jostle  the 
amazed  aristocrat.  That  now  and  again  some  hec- 
toring hidalgo  should  sword-prick  them  out  of  his 
path  is  not  a  matter  for  undying  regret.  There  is 
too  much  hodden  gray  in  the  world  —  and  too  little 
purple,  far  too  little  purple.  I  am  no  enemy  of  the 
slashed  doublet. 

American  literature  is  largely  an  expression  of  the 
peasant  soul  —  these  educated  peasants,  who  go 
shrinkingly,  like  trained  dogs,  through  the  novels 
of  Mr.  Ho  wells ;  these  timid  folk  that  expose  their 
arid,  little  souls  to  Miss  Wilkins  ;  these  scented  and 
soapy  figures  that  leap  through  the  paper  hoops  of 


"IN  THE  GENTLEMANLY  INTEREST"  221 

"  society  "  fiction  —  they  are  all  proletarians.  They 
belong  to  the  race  of  the  labor-loosened  knees  and 
the  crooked  hands.  American  literature  is  the  crea- 
tion and  expression  of  the  gray  race. 

(There  are  two  races  of  men.  And  the  one  is 
beautiful,  luxurious,  heroic,  cruel,  ravished  by  the 
splendid  banality  of  life  ;  the  other  is  gray,  patient, 
drowsy,  dutiful,  the  race  of  pitiful  men.) 

In  young  France,  literature  is  becoming  more 
and  more  the  amusement  —  a  divine  amusement, 
yet  only  an  amusement  —  of  the  brilliant,  indifferent 
aristocrat.  'Tis  the  only  pleasure  left  him.  Will- 
ingly enough  would  he  ride  at  tilt  or  hunt  the  lean 
peasant  over  the  brown,  autumnal  fields,  when  the 
deer-hunt  failed ;  he  would  gladly  take  his  pleasures 
in  the  old  lordly  way.  But  he  has  lost  his  right  of 
lord  of  the  manor.  The  peasant  has  his  fields  and 
his  tradesmen  have  his  palaces.  His  banker  has 
married  the  slim,  aristocratic  girl.  His  only  heri- 
tage is  his  contempt  for  the  proletarians  who  have 
climbed  up  to  his  level.  And  so,  while  the  manu- 
facturers race  their  horses  and  the  peasants  rant 
Carlylean  prose  in  parliament,  he  wraps  his  disdain- 
ful purple  about  him  and  turns  to  the  divine  sport 
of  literature.  Little  by  little  he  is  making  it  aristo- 
cratic. Little  by  little  he  is  making  it  a  new  badge 
of  aristocracy.  Still  the  Geneva  professors  write. 
Still  the  Fourth  Estate  writes,  writes  —  they  with 
the  dandruff  on    the   coat-collar    and    the    mutton 


222  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

twirling  at  the  fire.  Still  the  educated  peasant 
spills  his  gaunt  pot-hooks  on  paper  and  his  faded 
daughters  chronicle  the  faded  thoughts  that  to  them 
seem  so  formidably  new.  M argot  still  weeps  in  the 
melodrama.  But  all  this  is  not  literature,  profitable 
though  it  may  be  to  those  who  are  interested  in  the 
results  of  the  modern  experiment  in  universal  edu- 
cation.    No  — 

The  men  in  mail  —  the  splendid  minority  that 
of  old  played  with  the  scarlet  and  beneficent  ener- 
gies of  war  —  have  thrown  themselves  into  the 
game  of  letters.  They  are  crowded  by  the  lean 
fellows,  who  come  down  from  the  garrets,  by  the 
mouldy  men  who  crawl  up  from  the  cellars.  And 
they  are  gay  and  insolent  as  those  silken  gentlemen 
of  Versailles,  who  attacked  the  mob  of  revolution- 
ary helots,  with  ribboned  jasper  canes.  Perhaps 
the  mob  will  sweep  over  them  and  trample  them  in 
the  gravel.  But  for  the  moment  they  make  a 
gallant  stand  —  brandishing  their  clouded  canes  in 
the  face  of  the  unleashed  people. 

And  when  I  think  of  these  gentlemen  advent- 
urers —  Nietzsche,  the  outlawed  count  of  Poland, 
should  have  been  of  them  —  there  is  none  upon 
whose  swordsmanship  I  count  more  surely  than 
upon  that  of  Hugues  Rebell.  He  has  a  supple 
wrist  and  a  quick  eye  ("  thou  knowest  my  old 
ward ;  here  I  lay  and  thus  I  bore  my  point "),  and 
has  carried  himself  swashingly  against  the  buckram 
men  and  the  misbegotten  knaves  in  Kendal  Green. 


"IN  THE  GENTLEMANLY  INTEREST"  223 

Oddly  enough  —  at  least  I  cannot  quite  under- 
stand it —  in  his  fiction  Hugues  Rebell 's  gay  aris- 
tocratism  takes  on  quite  a  lawless  air.  He  has  all 
Aristophanes'  fondness  for  "  garlands,  singing  girls 
and  bloody  noses."  In  "  Nichina  " — a  Venetian 
tragi-comedy,  which  made  him  famous  —  he  riots 
like  a  Gascon  free-lance.  A  far  truer  measure  of 
his  talent  is  "  La  Femme  qui  a  connu  l'Empereur," 
a  singularly  fine  novel,  accomplished,  balanced, 
audacious.  The  craftsmanship  and  the  subtlety  of 
characterization  remind  you  of  Thackeray.  And 
like  Thackeray,  be  it  remembered,  M.  Rebell 
writes  always  "in  the  Gentlemanly  Interest." 
Tante  Rachel  and  M.  le  Vergier  des  Combes 
would  not  have  been  out  of  place  in  "  Vanity 
Fair " ;  and,  though  that  blunt  girl  Virginie  is 
almost  epic  in  her  way  of  looking  at  love,  she  is 
not  without  a  touch  of  Becky  Sharp's  wistful  im- 
pulses toward  virtue.  And  nowhere,  by  the  way, 
will  you  find  quite  so  admirable,  colorful  and  viva- 
cious a  picture  of  the  downfall  of  the  second  empire 
and  the  rise  of  the  third  Republic  —  that  organized 
disorder.     As  Musset  said  of  some  one's  book  : 

Ton  livre  est  ferme  et  franc,  brave  homme  ;  il  fait  aimer. 

A  few  years  ago  I  read  a  book  of  proud  and  fan- 
ciful little  verses,  which  Rebell  published  under  the 
title  —  a  charming  title  :  "  Chants  de  la  Pluie  et  du 
Soleil."     In  verse  and  rhythmic  prose  he  sang  the 


224  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

joy  of  life  —  the  joy  of  affronting  destiny  —  the  joy 
of  the  silk  cloak  and  (it  is  the  aristocrat's  ultimate 
pleasure)  the  joy  of  ennui.  And  ever  since  I  read 
these  chants  of  the  sun  and  rain,  I  have  expected  a 
great  deal  of  Hugues  Rebell.  He  is  a  young  man, 
plein  d'avenir. 


Le  comte  Robert  de  Montesquiou 
Fezensac 

Always  there  have  been  two  poetries  —  the  one 
immediate,  contemporary,  in  touch  with  the  Zeit- 
geist, alive  to  the  problems  of  the  moment  and 
prophetic  in  its  forecasts  of  human  destiny ;  and 
the  other  poetry,  which  begins  by  being  literature, 
degenerates  at  last  into  sheer  trifling,  faded  eroti- 
cism, word-juggling  and  self-sick  analysis.  The 
plant  that  has  borne  the  hardiest,  most  splendid 
flowers,  decays  soonest;  the  bravest  literature  has 
always  the  most  conspicuous  decadence.  While 
Byron  chanted  and  Shelley  sang,  England  rang  with 
the  piping  of  a  nestful  of  little,  libertine  poets.  It 
is  an  infinite  error  to  imagine  that  great  artists  and 
their  parodists  do  not  exist  side  by  side  —  that  the 
rose  and  the  dwarf  rose  may  not  blow  in  the  same 
garden  —  that  Spenser  may  not  have  his  Gabriel 
Harvey  and  Vergil  his  Valerius  Cato.  Indeed  the 
strength  of  a  poetical  movement  is  often  most  not- 
ably seen  in  the  crowd  of  poetasters  it  drags  in  its 
train. 

France  has  always  been  exceptionally  rich  in 
boudoir  art  —  the  pretty,  fluttering,  fantastic,  ob- 
scene   art    of    the    salon  —  the    art    of   Laclos    and 


226  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

Boufflers,  of  Bernis  and  Chanlieu ;  always,  too,  it 
apes  the  modes  of  its  century  —  is  classic  or  roman- 
tic, precious  or  free,  symbolic  or  crystalline ;  it  is 
of  the  fashion. 

M.  de  Montesquiou  is  the  type  of  the  man  who 
writes  because  all  write,  who  echoes  and  exaggerates 

—  in  his  shrill  little  way  —  the  poetic  modes  of  the 
hour.  Personally  he  is  a  good-natured,  harmless, 
fashionable,  little  soul,  more  like  a  silver  penny 
than  a  genius  —  to  use  Horace  Walpole's  effective 
phrase  —  but,  as  the  parasite  and  zany  of  modern 
French  poetry,  he  is  not  uninteresting  to  the  phil- 
osophically inclined.  He  is  a  gentleman.  I  once 
said  —  and  M.  Rene  Doumic  did  me  the  honor  of 
appropriating  the  phrase  —  that  he  had  raised  liter- 
ature to  the  dignity  of  a  sport.  That  is  quite  true. 
He  has  entered  literature  in  the  Gentlemanly  Inter- 
est—  and  is,  indeed,  a  ghastly,  little  parody  of  what 
I  should  like  to  call  the  Aristocratic  Intention  in 
letters.  Hugues  Rebell  is  the  apostle  of  cloak  and 
sword  and  panache ;  M.  de  Montesquiou  stands  for 
butterflies  and  blue  hortensias,  for  Japanese  pottery 
and  Venetian  glass,  for  perfumed  fans  and  Russian 
tea.  In  dark,  symbolic  verse  he  pipes  the  glories 
of  the  drawing-room  —  the  ideographic  hand  is  that 
of  Mallarme,  but  the  voice  is  that  of  Beau  Tibbs. 

The  Latin  poets  of  the  time  of  the  decadence 
diverted  themselves   by  stringing  epanaleptic  verses 

—  a  game  like  any  other,     Pentadius,  for  instance, 


"IN  THE  GENTLEMANLY  INTEREST"  227 

was  expert  in  the  game ;  do  you  remember  his  dis- 
tich on  Vergil,  and  the  Narcissean  lines  on  which 
we  whetted  our  Latinity  in  the  long  ago  ?  These 
cadenced  nothings,  these  harmonious  bagatelles  — 
nug<e  canora — are  not  without  charm  to  the  frivolous- 
minded.  I  could  ask  nothing  better  on  a  sunny 
afternoon  in  July  than  to  lie  in  the  shade  by  a 
river  and  read  Ausonius,  or  the  rhythmic  caprices 
of  the  scholars  of  Salerno  —  monkish  fancies  tricked 
out  in  fantastic  language. 
Do  you  remember : 

Quid  fades,  fades  Veneris  quum  veneris  ante  ? 
Ne  sedeas,  sed  eas,  ne  pereas  per  eas. 

Vos  estis,  Deus  est  testis,  teterrima  pestis, 

O  Lamachi!   vestri  stomachi  sunt  amphora  Bacchi. 

And,  again,  that  tinkling  enigma  : 

Plaudite,  porcelli,  porcorum  pigra  propago 
Progreditur  ;  plures  porci  pinguedine  pleni 
Pugnantes  pergunt  .  .  . 
Flos  fueram  factus  :   florem  fortuna  fefellit : 

Florentem  florem  florida  flora  fleat. 
Mors  mortis  morti  mortem  nisi  morte  dedisset, 

Nobis  ccelorum  janua  dausa  foret. 
O  Tite  tute  Tati  tibi  tanta  tyranne  tulisti. 
Mitto  tibi  navem  prora  puppique  carentem. 
Mitto  tibi  metulas ;  cancros  imitare  legendo. 
Signa,  te  signa ;  temere  me  tangis  et  angis. 

Roma  tibi  subito  motibus  ibit  amor. 

Mitis  ero,  retine  leniter  ore  sitim. 


228  FRENCH  PORTRAITS 

It  is  all  a  puerile  mania,  said  La  Harpe,  this 
occupying  oneself  with  laborious  trifles.  Now  if 
you  will  open  the  books  of  M.  de  Montesquiou  — 
be  it  "  Roseaux  Pensants,"  be  it  "  Chauves-Souris," 
be  it  "  Hortensias  Bleus,"  be  it  "  Le  chef  des  odeurs 
suaves  "  —  you  will  lift  your  eyebrows  and  whisper 
softly  to  yourself:  "  Salerno  come  again."  Let  us 
read  at  hazard  ;  here  for  instance  : 

.  .  .  Temporaire 
Temporelle  —  quel  le  ? 
Temperature  temperee  .  .  . 

"  Let  us  love  the  hortensias ! "  M.  de  Mon- 
tesquiou  cries   prettily ;  and   the  dahlia,  as  well,  for 

it  is  — 

Lave,  glace,  sable,  chine, 
Panache,  recouvert,  ombre, 
Ongle,  rubanne,  margine, 
Avive,  reflete,  marbre, 
Cerne,  borde,  frise,  pointe, 
ficlaire,  nuance,  came, 
Frise,  lisere,  veloute, 
Granite,  strie,  coccine. 

Fashionably  pessimistic,  M.  de  Montesquiou 
pipes  his  little  songs  of  the  sonorities  he  hears  in 
mauve  of  the  "  fine,  fashionable,  elegant  sky,"  which 
is  "  blue,  gray,  pink,  like  a  dress,  like  a  glove " ; 
and  idle  Paris  wonders  and  fashionable  Paris  sighs : 
"  The  exquisite   poet !  "     And   it  is  all  very  pretty 


"IN  THE  GENTLEMANLY  INTEREST"  229 

and  precious  —  and  quite  in  the  Gentlemanly  In- 
terest. Life  would  be  too  sad,  were  it  not  for  the 
poets  of  the  blue  hortensias,  green  roses  and  white 
peonies  —  these  impassioned  lovers  of  mauve  and 
peacocks  and  Dresden  china.  Nature  must  wear 
an  aspect  of  peculiar  interest  to  those  who  see  the 
sky  as  a  silk  petticoat  and  in  the  blessed  sun  him- 
self see  onlv  an  antique  warming-pan. 


Ind 


ex 


Aar,  The,  50. 

"Absinthe  Drinker,  The,'*  5. 

Academy,  The,  2 1 6. 

Adam,  Paul,  207-208,  210. 

Ajalbert,  209. 

Amazons,  131. 

"Amour,  /',''  192. 

Anarchy,  203. 

Angelo,  Michel,  140. 

"Ants,  The,"  172. 

Antwerp,  43. 

"Aphrodite"  135,  136. 

"  Apologia  of  Emile  Zola,"  215. 

Apples  of  Gold,  131. 

"Archipel  en  Fleurs,  /',"  103, 

109. 
"Arethuse,"  103,  1 15. 
Aristophanes,  138,  167. 
Aristotle,  57. 
"Ars  Poetic  a"  9. 
"Assommoir,  /',"  80. 
"Atrides,  The,"  57. 
Ausonius,  227. 
"Aveugles,  Les,"  35. 
"Avis,"  81. 
Axa,  Zo  d',  206,  207. 
Aytoun,  William  Edmonstoune, 

182. 

B 

Baccalaureus,  Herr,  192. 

Bach,  1  2. 

Bahr,  Hermann,  162,   164. 


"Ballades  Francaises"  176. 
Balilliat,  Marcel,  135. 
Balzac,   139,   171. 
Banville,  de,  Theodore,  13,  j~, 

107. 
Barbarians,   165,   166. 
Barres,  Maurice,  160-167,  203, 

205,  209,  214. 
Barres,    Maurice,   and   Egoism, 

160-167. 
Bashkirtseff,  Marie,   163. 
Bataille,   127. 

Baudelaire,  Charles,  71,  76. 
Beau  Brummel,  167. 
Beau  Tibbs,  226. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,   58. 
Beckford,   1  4. 
Becque,  66. 
'•  Beggar's     Soliloquies,     The," 

1 53-- 

Beguin  Nuns,  67. 

Belgian    Renascence,   The,   24- 

Camille  Lemonnier,  24—28. 

Maurice  Maeterlinck,  29—42. 

Emile  Verhaeren,  43—49. 

Georges  Eekhoud,  50—60. 

Georges  Rodenbach,   61—68. 

Max  Elskamp  and    Fernand 
Severin,  67—72. 
Belgique,  Jeune,  La,  24—26. 
Belgium,  Young,  24-26. 
"Belle  Dame passa,  Une,"  108— 
1  10. 


-3' 


232 


INDEX 


Benoit,  Peter,  60. 

Bernhardt,  Sarah,   143—144. 

Bernis,  226. 

Beyle,  Henri,  163. 

Bion,  181. 

Bisson,  66. 

"Black     Angel     of    Anarchy,** 

208. 
"  Blasphemes,  Les,""  142,  151. 
Blockx,  Jan,  60. 
Blond,  le,  Maurice,    163,   197, 

198-199. 
Bobadil,  92. 
Boileau,  1  80. 

"  Bosquet  de  Psyche,  Le,"   115. 
Botticelli,  12,  212. 
Bouchor,  142. 
Bouhelier,    de,     Saint-Georges, 

178,  194-202. 
Boulanger,  General,    161,   167. 
Bourdain,  203. 
Bourget,  Paul,  171,  21 1,  212, 

214. 
Boul'  Mich',  81. 
"Braves  Gens,"  151. 
Bruges,  24,  62,  65.  " 
u  Bruges- la- Morte,"  66. 
Brunetiere,  Fernand,  214. 
Brussels,  24,  29,  42,  50. 
Buddhism,  195. 
BufFon,   172. 
Burns,  R.,  145. 
Burne-Jones,  29,  30. 
Bvron,  "8,   160,  227. 

c 

Cabaret  des  Assassins,  137. 
Cafe  de  /' Avenir,  3. 

"    du  Chalet,  3. 

"     Francois  Premier,  5,  91. 


Cafe  de  /'  Horloge,  34. 
'*     Rubens,  43. 

"Calvaire,"  207. 

Calvin,  131. 

"Campagnes  Hallucin'ees,    Les," 

47- 

Campine,  The,  50,  55. 

Candide,  1 30. 

Canterbury  Pilgrims,  138. 

"Canttlenes,  Les,"  96. 

"Carillonneur,"  66. 

Carlyle,  219. 

Caserio,  203,  210. 

Chanlieu,  226. 

"  Chanson  des  Gueux, "  137,142. 

"Chanson  du  Pauvre,"  1  10. 

"  Chant  dans  P  Ombre,  Un,"  7  1 . 

'•Chants  de  fa  Pluie  et   du  So- 
ldi," 223. 

Charbonnel,  I  27. 

"Charniers,  Les,"  24. 

Chasseurs  d'  Afrique,  206. 

'  •  Chauves-  Sour  is, "  228. 

'•  Chef  des  odeurs  suave s,    Le," 
zz%. 

1 '  Chemineau,  Le, "  145—150. 

Chenier,  Andre,  122. 

Cheret,  15,  212. 

Children's  Crusade,   184-188. 

Chimay,  de,  Prince,  45. 

'•  Chimney  -  swallows,       The,'* 
169. 

Chopin,  22. 

"  Christ  of  Jehan  Rictus,  The,**- 
152-159. 

"Cceur  Double,"  192. 

"Cojfret  de  Santal,  Le,"  2. 

"Coin  de  Village,  Un,"  24. 

College  Rollin,  13. 

College  Sainte-Barbe,  43. 

Color  Theory,  80. 


INDEX 


233 


Color  Theory,  Rimbaud's,   16. 
Columbine,  177. 
"Comte  de  la  Digue,  Le,"  57. 
"  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man, 

The,"  4,  17. 
Contemporary  Parnassus,  80. 
"Contes  Epiques,'''  76. 
Coppee,  Francois,    4,   12,  21 4. 
Coquelin,  2. 
Corbiere,  Tristan,   163. 
Corot,  7 1 . 

Criticism,  New,  The,  21  1-2 1  8. 
Cros,  Charles,  2. 
"Cueille  d' Jvril,"  118. 
'■'•Cycle  Patibulaire,  Le,"  55. 

D 

"Dame  aux  Came  lias,  La,"  134. 

Damien,  Father,  43. 

"■Daphne,''1  124. 

Darwin,  195. 

Daudet,  Alphonse,  15,  77, 
171,  214. 

Davidson,  John,  181. 

Da  Vinci,  140. 

"Debacles,  Les,"  44,  46. 

De  Braekeler,  24. 

"D'ception,"  155. 

Degas,  5,  15. 

Degas'  "  The  Absinthe  Drink- 
er," 5. 

Degron,  Henri,  1 1 1 . 

Denys  of  Halicarnassus,  98. 

Deschamps,  Leon,  204. 

Deshoulieres,  Mme.,  1  80. 

"Destin,"  200. 

Disraeli,  121,  161. 

Djelrna,  143,  144. 

"Don  d*  Enfance,"  71. 

Dostoiewsky,  192. 


Doumic,  Rene,  M.,  226. 

Doyen,  le,  Lemonnier,  25. 

"Dragon-fly,  The,"  171. 

Drake,  58. 

Drawcansir,  92. 

Dream,  The,  22,  55,  85. 

Droz,  G.,  27. 

Dry  den,  102. 

Du  Maurier,  G.,  212. 

E 

Eekhoud,  Georges,  24— 26,  50— 
60. 

"  Egoist,  The,"  192. 

Elskamp,  Max,  69-70. 

Elskamp,  Max,  and  Fernand 
Severin,  69—72. 

Emerson,  14,   196. 

Emery,  Rene,  135. 

'■'■En  Dehors,"  206. 

"  Enluminures,"  69. 

Entresol  du  Parnasse,  8  1 . 

Erasmus,  184,  192. 

Erasmus,  New,  The,  Marcel 
Schwob,  184-193. 

"Eriphyle,"  96. 

Esau,  43. 

"  Essais  de  Psychologic  Contern- 
poraine,"  21  1-212. 

Essays  on  Contemporary  Psy- 
chology, 21  1-2 1  2. 

"Esseintes,  Des,"  19. 

Euclid,  13. 

"  Eurythmie ,"  103. 

"Eventail,'''  14. 


Fables,  Ballads,  Pastorals,  168- 
183. 
Jules  Renard,   168-175. 


234 


INDEX 


Paul  Fort,   176-179. 

Francis  Jammes,  180—183. 
Falstaff,  177. 

"Family  of  Trees,  A,"  174. 
"Fantastic   Review,  The,"  80. 
Father  Damien,  43. 
"Faune,"  17. 
Faure,  Sebastian,  207. 
"Faute  de  Mme.  Char  vet,  Lay'' 

28. 
"Femme  en  Noir,  La,"  155. 
"Femtne    qui   a   connu    /' '  Em- 

pereur,  La,"  223. 
Fete  of  the  Women  of  Smarag- 

dis,  57. 
"Fetes  Galantes,  Les,"  7. 
Feuillet,  Octave,  194. 
Fielding,  139. 
"Fin  des  Bourgeois,"  28. 
Firmilian,   182. 

"Flamandes,  Les,"  26,  44,  45. 
"Flambeaux  Noirs,  Les,"  46. 
Flamma  Vestalis,  29. 
"Flanders,  Moll,"  192. 
Flaubert,  G.,  47,  168,  195. 
"Fleet  Street  Eclogues,"  181. 
"Fleurs,  Les,"  14. 
"Fleurs  du  Mai,  Les,"  8. 
Fontainas,  Andre,  55,  127. 
Forain,  212. 

"Foret  Bruissante,  La,"  108. 
Fort,  Paul,  176-179. 
Fourth  Estate,  The,  221. 
Fra  Angelico,  140. 
Fra  Diavolo,  5 1 . 
France,  Anatole,  3,  213,  214. 
Free  Verse,  100-104. 


"Garden  of  Love,"  7. 
Gautier,  Judith,  77,  78. 


Gautier,  Theophile,  12,  19,  8  1 . 
"  Gentlemanly       Interest,      In 

the,"  219-229. 
Germany,  Empress  of,  206. 
Ghent,  24,  29,  30,  42,  43. 
Ghent,  Old  and  New,  30. 
Ghent,    the    Soul    of   Flanders, 

3°- 
Ghil,  Rene,  16,  108. 

"Ghosts,"  156. 

"Giaour,"  54. 

Gilkin,  I  wan,  25,  27. 

Giraud,  Albert,  25. 

Glasse,  Mrs.,  27. 

"Glu,  La,"  151. 

Godefroy,  Duke,  33. 

Godfrey  de  Bouillon,  33. 

Goethe,  37,  139,  140. 

"Golden  Stair,  The,"  29. 

Gomorrah,  10. 

Goncourt,  de,  15,  77,  171. 

Goudeau,  Emile,  3. 

Gourmont,  Remy  de,  113,  206. 

Goya,  45,  165. 

Grave,  Jean,  1 1  2,  206. 

Gudule,  Saint,  3 1 . 

Gudule,  Sister,  68. 

Guise,  Duke  of,  33. 

H 

Halevy,  L.,  27. 
Hamlet,  34. 
Hamon,  210. 
Hampton  Court,  180. 
"Happe- Chair,"  28. 
Hardy,  Thomas,  50. 
Harlequin,  177. 
Hartmann,  Sadakichi,  194. 
Harvey,  Gabriel,  69,  225. 
"Haunted  Palace,"  102. 
Heine,  76,  1  27,  141. 


INDEX 


235 


Henley,  W.  E.,  1  89. 
Henry,  Emile,  203,  208. 
Heracles,    between    Virtue    and 

Pleasure,  131. 
Heredia,  de,  Mile.,  115. 
Heredia,    de,  Jose-Maria,    79, 

115,  116. 
"Hermes     Psycbagogos,"     1 89— 

191. 
"H'erodiade,"  13. 
Herodotus,  133. 
Herold,  1  27,  207. 
Hervieu,  Paul,  214. 
"  Hesperus,"  76. 
Hilda,  34. 
Hinds,  The,  131. 
Holmes,  Augusta,  82. 
Holy  Graal,  The,  149. 
Homer,  49,  140. 
"Homme  Libre,  /',"  166. 
"Homme  et  la  Sirene,  /',"  115. 
Horace,  160. 
"  Hours,  The,"  131. 
Howells,  W.  D.,  220. 
Hugo,  Victor,  1 2,  44,  49,  76, 

86,  100,  154,  204,  209. 
Huysmans,  J.  K.,  7,  195,  214. 
Hylas,  J  9  2. 

I 

Iamblichus,  197. 

Ibels,  Andre,  205. 

Ibsen,  156. 

Icres,  Fernand,  2. 

"Idylle  Diabolique,"  209. 

"  II pleure  dans  mon  cceur,"  8. 

Impeccables,  Les,  8. 

Impression    of    Paul    Verlaine, 

An,  1-10. 
"  In   Flandres    al    byyonde    the 

se,"  24. 


"  Inter  ieur,"  38. 
^•Intermezzo,''''  76. 
''In  the  Gentlemanly  Interest," 
219-229. 
Hugues  Rebell,  219-224. 
Le  comte  Robert  de  Montes- 
quiou  Fezensac,  225-229. 
"Intruse,  /',"  35. 

J 

"Jadis  et  Naguere,"  7. 
Jammes,  Francis,  180. 
Jeune  Belgique,  La,  24,  26. 
"Jeu/iesse  Blanche,  La,"  63. 
"Jeunesse    Contemporaine,     La, 

et  le  General  Boulanger," 

161. 

Jo]y>  93- 

jordaens,  45. 
Jose,  Maria,  5  1 . 
Jouet,  Abbe,  207. 
"Jour,  Le,"  1  82. 
'•Justice,"  84. 

rv 

Kahn,  Gustave,  70,   116. 

Kant,  1  19,  197. 

"Kees  Doorik,"  26,  53,  54. 

"Kermesses,  Les,"  53,  54. 

King  Otto,  97. 

Kipling,  Rudyard,  45,  4",  49. 

Kropotkin,  Prince,  204. 

Krvzinska,  Marie,  3,  108. 

L 

Laclos,  225. 

Laforgue,  Jules,  107, 

La  Harpe,  227. 

La  Jeunesse,  Ernest,    211-218. 


236 


INDEX 


Lamartine,  71,  122. 

"Lamour,  Claudine,"  28. 

Lang,  Andrew,  27. 

"  Lara/'  54. 

Larroumet,  M.,  212,  213. 

Last   of  the    Parnassians,    The, 

Catulle  Mendes,  73-90. 
Latin  Quarter,  59,  78,  9 2,"  2 12. 
Lavengro,  93,  192. 
Lazare,  Bernard,  207,  210. 
"Leaves  of   Grass,"  47,    103, 

201. 
"Le  cie!  est,  par-dessus  le  toit," 

102. 
"Lectures  Antiques"  136. 
"Lege nde  des  Sticks,"  76. 
Lemaitre,  Jules,  82,  214. 
Lemonnier,  Camille,  24—28,  58. 
Leopardi,  27. 
Lisle,  de,   Leconte,   4,  13,  76, 

.   ~7' 
"Litanies  of  Dynamite,"  205. 

"Livre  de  Monelle,  Le,"  192. 

Longfellow,  1  20. 

Loti,  Pierre,  214. 

"Louis  XL,"  176. 

Loukios,  36. 

"Lour des,"  215. 

Louvain,  24,  43. 

Louys,  Pierre,  130-136. 

"Love  Lies  A'  Bleeding,"  58. 

Luccheni,  203,  210. 

Lucian,  36. 

Luther,     15,     135,    138,    139, 

142. 

"Lys,  Le,"  71. 

M 

Mabie,  Hamilton,  214. 
Macaulay,  56. 


Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  15,  16, 
24,  29-42,  60,  95,  122, 
162,  214,  216—218. 

Maeterlinck,  Theories  of  Sci- 
ence and  Love,  39—41. 

Malatesta,  Count,  204,  210. 

Malato,  207. 

"Male,  Un,"  24. 

Mallarme,  Stephane,  1  1—23, 
79,  102,  115,  125,  140, 
161,  226. 

Mallarme's  Symbolism,  16—23. 

Mallarme' s  Technique,   17-23. 

Mallarme's  Theory  of  Verse, 
12. 

Manet,  Edouard,  15. 

Marcus  Aurelius,  39. 

Marechal  de  lettres,  26. 

Marlowe,  57. 

Martin  (Candide),  130. 

Maupassant,  de,  Guy,  12,  171. 

Mazel,  Henri,  207, 

"  McAndrew's  Hymn,"  47. 

"Me  dee,"  84. 

Memmling,  69. 

Mendes,  Catulle,  73-90. 

Mendes,  Mme.,  81. 

Mendes,  Tibulle,  76. 

Men  of  Letters  and  Anarchy, 
203-210. 

Mercure  de  France,  207. 

"Mer,  La,"  151. 

"Mer  tlegante,"  26. 

Meredith,  George,  191. 

"Meres  Ennemies,  Les,"  84. 

Merimee,  Prosper,  194. 

Merode,  de,  Cleo,  2 1  2. 

Merrill,  Stuart,  113,  11 6-1 18, 
205,  208. 

'■  Mes  Communions,"  55. 

"Mes  Paradis,"  151. 


INDEX 


237 


"Miarka,"  151. 

Michel,  Louise,  204. 

Michelet,  171. 

"Mi/ices  de  St.  Francois,  Les," 

53- 
"Mimes,"  188-189. 
Mirbeau,    Octave,    203,    207, 

210. 
"  Mirror  of  Venus,  The,'*  29. 
"Moines,  Les,"  45. 
Monet,  Claude,  36. 
"  Monks,  The,"  45. 
Mons  Penitentiary,  8. 
"Monsieur  Scapin, "  151. 
Montesquiou,     de,      Fezensac, 

Comte  Robert,  225-229. 
Moore,  George,   4,  5,  16,  17, 

47»  *38- 

Moreas,  Jean,  116,  122. 

Moreas,   Jean,    and    his   Disci- 
ples, 91-99. 

Morice,  6. 

"Morts  Bizarres,"  142. 

Moschus,  181. 

Murger,  Henri,  212. 

"Mus'ee  de  B'eguines,"  66. 

Musset,  de,  163,  223. 

N 
"Nana,"  134. 
"Nana-Sabib,"  143. 
Napoleon,  94. 
Naturism  and  Saint- Georges  de 

Bouhelier,  194-202. 
Neo-Platonists,  35. 
New  Criticism,  The,  2 1 1-2 1 8. 
New    Erasmus,    The,    Marcel 

Schwob,  184-193. 
New  Poetry,  The,  100—129. 
Free  Verse,  100—104. 
Adolphe  Rette,  104-112. 


Henri  de  Regnier,  Stuart 
Merrill,  and  Viele-Griffin, 
1 13-120. 

"Nicbina,"  223. 

Nietzsche,  38,  42,  52,  123, 
204,  222. 

Nights,  the  Ennuis,  and  the 
Souls  of  our  Most  Notori- 
ous Contemporaries,  The, 
211. 

Nordau,  Max,   162,   164. 

"Nouvelle  Carthage,"  54. 

"  Nouvelles  Kermesses"  54. 

Novalis,  35. 

Nuits,  les  Ennuis  et  les  Ames  de 
tios  plus  Notoires  Contem- 
porains,  Les,  21  1-214. 

o 

Odysseus,   1 3  2, 

"  Of  Blood,  of  Pleasure  and  of 

Death,"  162. 
Omar  Khayyam3  160. 
Othello,  34. 
Otto,  King,  97. 
Ovid,  50. 


Paganism  of  Pierre  Louys,  The, 

130-136. 
Pailleron,  Edouard,  66. 
Palicare  of  Epirus,  5  1 . 
Pantaloon,  177. 
Papadiamantopoulos,  97. 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  101. 
"Paris,"  215. 
Parnassians,   The,    7,    10,    12, 

13,  26,  102,  107,  214. 
Parnassians,  Last  of  the,  73. 
Parsifal,  117. 


238 


INDEX 


Pascal,  123,  209. 
"  Passionate  Pilgrim,"  96. 
Pater,  Walter,  83,  198. 
Patterne,   Sir  Willoughby,    38, 

192. 
"Pauvre,  Le,"  105-107. 
Pentadius,  226. 
"Pelerin  Pas  5  tonne,  Le,"  96. 
Perouse,  de,  Galland,  206. 
Petrarch,  180. 
•'Philaster,"  58. 
Philemon,  123. 
Philistine,  27. 
Pica,  Vittoria,  162. 
Pied-a-terre  in  the  Rue  du  Ma- 

rais,  The,  29. 
Pierrot,  6,  177,  198. 
Pierrot,  Socratic,  6. 
Pippa,  119. 
Plato,  35,  195,  197. 
Plotinus,  35. 
"Plume,  La,"  20. 
Poe,  Edgar,  14,  59,  101,  102, 

103,  202. 
Poe,  Edgar,  Tomb  of,  14. 
"Poemes  Satumiens,"  7. 
Po'esie  Rom an e,  95,  96. 
Po'ete  des  Poetes,  10. 
Poetes  Maudits,  14. 
Poetry,  New,  The,  100—129. 
Free  Verse,  100—104. 
Adolphe  Rette,  104-112. 
Henri     de     Regnier,     Stuart 

Merrill,  and  Viele-Griffin, 

1 13-1  20. 
Pompadour,  7. 
Pope,  Alexander,   1  80. 
Pope  Innocent  III.,  1  84. 
Pope  Gregory  IX.,  188. 
Porphyry,  35,  197. 
Porte  St.  Martin,  Theatre,  143. 


Pouchon,  Raoul,  142. 
"Pour  Lire  au  Bain,"  76. 
"Pour  Lire  au  Couvent,"  76. 
"  Prayer    of   Anatole    France," 

214. 
Prevost,  Marcel,  2 1 4. 
Prince  de  Chimay,  45. 
Prince  Hal,  1. 

' '  Prince sse  Maleine, "  35,  38. 
Prize,  State,  25. 
Prodicos,  131. 
Putte,  de,  M.,  197. 

a 

Quartier    Latin,    59,    78,    92, 

21  2. 
Quillard,  Pierre,   1  27,  207. 

R 

"Rabbits,  The,"  173. 
Racan,  Marquis  de,  1  80. 
Racine,  122. 
Raffaeli,  59. 

Randon,  Gabriel,  152,   205. 
Raskolnikoff,  Rodion,  192. 
Rat  Mort  (Cafe J,  142. 
Ravachol,  210. 

Rebell,  Hugues,  219—224,  226. 
Reclus,  Elisee,  203. 
"R'egne  du  Silence,"  63,  66. 
Regnier,  de,  H.,  1  o  1 ,  1  1  3- 1 1 6, 

I  19,  1  22,  207. 
Regnier,     de,      Henri,     Stuart 

Merrill,  and  Viele-Griffin, 

1 13-120. 
Remer,  Paul,  162. 
Renan,  39,  162,  163,  212, 
Renard,  Jules,  168. 
Renascence,  Belgian,  The,  24— 

72. 


INDEX 


239 


Camille  Lemonnier,  24-28. 
Maurice  Maeterlinck,  29-42. 
Emile  Verhaeren,  43-49. 
Georges  Eekhoud,  50-60. 
Georges  Rodenbach,  61-68. 
Max    Elskamp   and    Fernand 
Severin.  67-72. 
Renascence,  The,    23,  24,  28, 

138. 

'4  Republic  of  Letters,  The,"  80. 
Rette,  Adolphe,    12,   50,  101, 

102,  104-112,  120,  122, 

205,  208. 
"Revenant,  Le,''  I  55-1  58. 
"  Review  of  To-morrow,''  80. 
Revolt  of  Young  Belgium,  25. 
''■Revue  Libert  aire,''''  205. 
Richepin,  Jean,  55,  106,   1  3  7— 

151,  152,  154,  171,  214. 
Richepin,    Jean,    and    the   Va- 

grom  Man,  1 3  7- 1  5  1 . 
Rictus,  Jehan,  105,   152-153. 
Rimbaud,  8. 

Rimbaud's  Color  Theorv,  1 6. 
"Road,  The,"  217. 
Rochefort,  Henri,  2 1 4. 
Rodenbach,   Georges,    25,    26, 

59,  61-68. 
Rodin,  15,  36. 
Rollinat,   155. 

"Romance  sans  Paroles,"  7,  8. 
Ronsard,  75. 
Rops,  Felicien,  24,  60. 
"Roseaux  Pensants,"1"1  228. 
Rubens,  7,  139,  140. 
Ruysbroeck,  35. 


Sacher  Masoch,  50. 
Sade,  Marquis  de,  6. 


"Sagesse,"  3,  7,  8. 

" Sages se  et  Destinee,"  37,  38. 

Saint- Armand,  43. 

Saint  Basil,  131. 

Saint  Denys  the  Areopagyte,  35. 

Saint  Francis  of  Assisi,  6. 

St.  Gudule,  3  i. 

St.  Nicolas,  30. 

Saint-Pol-Roux  -  le-Magnifique, 

\  27. 
Sainte-Beuve,  j~. 
Ste.-Pelagie,     Prison     of,    142, 

207. 
Salerno,  227,  228. 
Saltus,  Edgar,  1  1  7. 
Samain,  Albert,  121,  127—129. 
Santiago,  42. 
Satanism,   195. 
Scheldt,  43. 
Schiller,  72. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  27. 
Schwob,    Marcel,     123,     184- 

'93- 

Schwob,  Marcel,  The  New 
Erasmus,   184—193. 

Segrais,   1  80. 

iiSemaine,  La,1'  44. 

Severin,  Fernand,  69,  70-72. 

Seville,  136. 

Shakspere,  17,  32,  49,  58, 
96,  123,  138,  140. 

Sharp,  William,  16,  17. 

Shaw,  George  Bernard,  2 1 4. 

Shelley,  105,  205,  225. 

"Shepherd's  Calendar,"  180. 

Sidney,  58. 

"Siegfried,"  48,  109. 

Signoret,  Emmanuel,  121,  122, 
1  24-1  27. 

Signoret,  Emmanuel,  and  Al- 
bert Samain,  121-127. 


240 


INDEX 


Tante  Rachel,  223. 

Tar  tar  in  de  Tar  as  con,  99. 

Tavern  of  the  Golden  Sun,  3. ' 

Teniers,  45. 

Theatre-Librists,  66. 

Theories  of  Science  and  Love, 

Maeterlinck's,  39-40. 
Theory  of  Verse,   Mallarme's, 

12. 
"Thoughts,"  Pascal's,  38. 
"Tintagiles,"  35. 
Tin-Tun-Ling,  82. 


1 '  Similitudes, "  105. 

Sir  Galahad,  149. 

Sir  Thopas,  24. 

Sister  Ygraine,  36. 

Socrates,  4,  6,  135. 

Socratic  Pierrot,  6. 

"Soirs,  Les,"  46. 

Solness,  34,  35. 

"Soliloques    du    Pauvre,     Les,'* 

'53- 

"  Songs  of  Bilitis,"  i  36. 

"  Song  of  Islam,"  105. 

"  Sous    P(Eil   des    Bar  bares,"      Titian,  138,740. 

166.  "Toad,  The,"  170. 

Spencer,  196.  Toby,  Uncle,  99. 

Spenser,    Edmund,     69,     180,      Tolstoi,  41,  42. 

225.  "Tomb  of  Edgar  Poe,"  14. 

"Spicil'ege,"  191,  193.  "Tragedy  of  the   Forest,   A," 

Spinoza,  123.  52. 

State  Prize,  25.  "Treasure     of     the     Humble, 

Steen,  Jan,  139.  The,"  38. 

Steiner,  164.  Trilogies  of  Verhaeren,  47. 

Stendhal,  162,  163.  "Triompbe  des  Mediocre s,  Le," 

Sterne,  Laurence,  137,  181.  208. 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,    189,      "Turkey  Hen,  The,"  172. 

191. 
Story,  W.  W.,  54. 
Surrey,  58. 
Swedenborg,  35. 
Swinburne,  13,  14. 
Switzerland,  50. 
"Sy/ve,"  98. 

Symbolism,  94-95,  107. 
Symbolism  and  the  Symbolists, 

16,  17,  214. 
uSyrtes,  Les,"  96. 


T 

uTacbes  d' Encre,"  161. 
Tailhade,  Laurent,    127,  205. 


u 

"Une  Belle  Dame  pass  a,"  108, 

1 10. 
Urfe,  Marquis  d',   181. 

V 

Vagrom  Man,   The,    56,    137, 

145-150. 
Vaillant,  205,  208. 
Vakiem,  Tarninch,  and  Sariem,  ' 

118. 
Valerius,  Cato,  123,  225. 


INDEX 


241 


Van  Dyck,  44. 

Van  Eyck,  69. 

"Variations  sur  un  Sujet,"  14. 

"Vathek,"  14. 

"Venus,  Mirror  of,  The,"  29. 

Vergier    des    Combes,    M.   le, 

223. 
Vergil,  225,  227. 
Verhaeren,  Emile,   16,  24,  49, 

59>  6o- 
Verlaine,   Paul,    1-10,   13,   14, 

70,     79,    91,    92,     102, 

107,  122,  127,  128. 
Verlaine,  Pen  Portrait  of,  4. 
"Vers  Dor es,"  121,  124. 
Verse,  Free,  100-104. 
Viele,  General,  116. 
Viele-Griffin,    101,    108,    113, 

1 16,  1 18,  1 19-1  20,  1  22, 

207. 
"Vies  Encloses,'"  66. 
"Villages    Illusoires,    Les,"   47, 

Villiers  de  1' Isle  Adam,  13,  15, 

79- 
"Villes  Tentaculaires,  Les,"  47, 

48. 
Villon,  Francois,    7,    176,  193. 
Virgin  of  Flanders,  70. 
"Vocation,  La,"  66. 
"Voile,  Le,"  66-68. 
Voltaire,  130,  162. 


w 

Wagner,  R.,  14,  15,  49,  81, 
108,  1 1  2,  139. 

Waldweben,  109. 

Walkyries,  The,  1 1  7. 

Waller,  Max,  25. 

Walpole,  Horace,  226. 

"  Wasp,  The,"  1  72. 

Waterloo,  Stanley,  52. 

Watteau,  7. 

Webster,  58. 

"Week,  The,"  44. 

Whistler,   16. 

Whitman,  Walt,  5,  23,  45,  49, 
56,  58,  101,  103,  108, 
112,  115,  1  18,  119,  141, 
160,  194,  200,  201.  202. 

Wilkins,  Miss,  220. 

"  Winter,"  1  53. 

"Wisdom,"  8. 

"  Wisdom  and  Destiny,"  37,  38. 


Y 


26. 


Young  Belgium,  24 

z 

Zarathushtra,  56,  197. 
Zeuxis,  123. 

Zola,   £mile,    12,    15,  36,  80, 
169,  171,  195,  214-216. 
Zurbaran,  45. 


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